If the smell of black beetles
that rust in my pockets,
could awake me, I wouldn't be dreaming of you,
caving through my mind,the forbidden pleasures,
struggling to break off the navel string
that binds you to my heart.

I PARASITED myself with you,
in neutral nights, suspended in the sky,
like black mirrors reflecting
the unseen shadow of the effete soul.

If the scrap of flesh that's almost falling from my arm,
would rot faster,
I would awake and kill you myself,
like you kill a moth, crushing it into the light,
admiring its life dust and its useless wings.

I got pregnant with you,
in opium riots,
poems of the infected blood
and rebellious pains.

If my bed would swallow me
like a hungry mouth of a demon from Hell,
I would awake before I perish,
I would open my chest with my bare hands,
to throw you out and enjoy my death's identity.
I would die with myself, just I, not us.

I got drunk again with you,
from the most hideous truth,
I'm a stub of thought,
from your drop of opium.