Rip it out.
Look at it.
Red, throbbing, oozing sensuality
And excitement for you;
Pumping these double beats in your hand
Like thunder through the lust-filled skies
And pouring scalding life
Over your hand;
Glistening ripe and fresh
And pounding in your grasp;
This sensation is fear
And hope and terror and the
Need to stay here and be loved
With unassuaged passion
In your all-encompassing gaze of power.
Squeeze this ripped out centre
That frets in the exposed air
Of want and agonising hope,
Of clamouring desperation
Not to be thrown aside.
Turn and turn and turn in your hands,
And see the All I have to offer.
It isn't much, but it can love.
It can love deeper than the legends
Beneath the sands of time;
Deeper than the oceans between here and forever;
Deeper than the black holes that twist away
From life and death.
It can love you.
And so you squeeze.
You turn it over and over and over
As the life-blood pumps and gushes out,
Soaking the ground beneath you
And learning to proudly sit beneath
Your gaze where none had persuaded before.
Your gaze of power,
So magnificently and smilingly coaxing
Now turns and turns and turns
Into a crushing vice of wicked disgust;
And what you ripped out splits at the seams
And thick walls slide like sliced ribbons
Between your unloving fingers
To fall into an ugly, scarcely heaving mess at your feet.
Who would want this,
Your cold eyes ask.
Who would want this crushed, ribboned pile
Of nothing good?
You turn away and leave.
I kneel down and scrape together these
Last vestiges of the hope I once had,
The fantasy of what I had to offer;
And I see it the way you saw it.
And who would want it?
Even I abhor looking at this thing.
But scrape it up I must,
And prise the floppy little pieces back
Into my chest where they sit,
In an ugly, stinking mess with drying raw edges and
Shrouded in the shame of the state of
The only thing I could offer anybody.
I don't want it either.
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