Tuesday, February 05, 2013


His kind of love is
a weapon of mass destruction. 
He falls over and over 
destroying the hearts of 
crowds of the most innocent 

He is a terrorist,
a heartless beat,
with a mind set to reach
a point of detonation
in 5,4,3,2...
Danger... danger... 
follows me
danger... danger...
I cut my connections.
There is nothing stranger
than the thought of another
knowing my wiring.
You found me on this 
dance floor that feels more like
a bomb shelter
you don't know me
I've lost my phone and ID

Smudged eyeshadow 
shimmery darkness 
across my cheek bones
resembling the aftermath of a blast
In your arms 
I find a bomb shelter..***
And on my lips  you taste 
the residue of an explosive passion 
that is not ours...

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