Black rose

His poetry was a murder scene
And I fell inlove with a man who confessed his crimes like it was an act of passion
Every line, every verse filled with the trepidation of every woman he has killed
I mistook his confessions for intense conversations
I mistook his violence for a wild romance
Whenever I was alone, reading his body of work; the pages would turn into screams, his ink into their blood
These women were warning me, that our lover was a dangerous man
That his touch, as sensual as it is, was nothing more than a measure of skin
And his deep, lustful kisses were nothing more than memories
Of how the first woman he undid kissed
My mouth was a grave, and he was exhuming all the bodies he hid
In his metaphors, similes and fatal attraction
I thought his pedantic nature was nothing more than care for a love he never wanted to waste
The way he ate my body was not for pleasure, but for brute strength
His tongue found my hidden layers
Climbed my Himalayans
He was savage with his strokes and wild with hunger when he kissed
His love was a way for him to bleed onto thin bark
Everyday my lover read me his suicide notes like they were poetry
Everyday my lover read me my death like it was an anthem
And before he put the kibosh on me
Pushing deep into my country
Even my spirit knew this will be its final release
My lover asked me to say his name
So that into eternity, it's all my tongue remebers