linda m crate

a monster who wears masks

it's as if you hollowed

out your body parts

along with your heart and soul

 

because you don't feel

anything,

 

sleep does not cure your ills;

 

because your soul

is black as the darkness you

give to others—

 

you've been told you are a

good man, a miracle, a blessing;

you are a curse bound in human flesh—

 

a monster who wears his masks,

playing victim so well that even he

believes it.

 

music of my soul

you wanted

my body parts

not my soul,

 

wanted to devour

my heart to kill

the succubus;

 

but she survived—

 

wanted to break my lips

of light with your darkness,

but you only buried seeds

of stars yet to bloom in my

night;

 

thought i would be content

with crumbs and scraps—

 

if i am to be loved properly,

you have to see me as more

than a sum of my body parts;

you have to look unflinching

at the music of my soul and the

mythology of my bones.

 

 

only then

body parts

strewn

across the bed,

 

conquest conquered;

 

not a care in your

world—

 

one day this will change,

as the nightmares you

gave others will come crashing

down and shatter your heaven

and paradises until there

are none;

 

and then your soul will

be ripped from you—

 

only then will you realize

people are more than

mere body parts.