My head spun at the sound of you,
Swinging on the sinews of my heart,
Grinding those gears that the butterflies inhabit,
Pushing my small machine to the limit of its capabilities.
You tugged, and I felt it,
Under my ribs.
Those ribs that protrude from my small figure,
Hanging like ornaments above my stomach,
And hips.
Your hands were always there, as I remember.
But now I feel them only in the place one feels heartache;
Cradling what it left, but fading away.
Pushing but also retreating...
Oh, how I long for the day we meet again.
How I long for the day you kill me.
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