There is a savage garden

where roses bleed.

Their perfume is teardrops

crystalized when your cold heart comes to worship them.

Your violent delight

is my pleasure and pain,

and your savageness has been carved into nails

that you hammer inside of me.

And yet I remain

bound and gagged

blissful in this foolishness

and the falsity of your so-called love

Take my hand, you say,

and walk with me

through the roses that bleed

and my desperate need.

 I allow you to violate me

over and over

until I am nothing more,

nothing more.

Until I am nothing more

than weeping pieces

and fragments of a person

glued together by your spitful need.