When my ink burns
hottest, thoughts of us scream
old wants out of my pen,
the me who loved you starts to ache
for the fiery words we howled together.
But I know you are a scorched page,
happiness turns to ashes
when self-love is slaughtered
so that lust can feed.
your blood has gone cold
and your lips sing poison.
for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.