She weaves in and out of me with

insincere apologies,

a natural psychology

that leaves me paralyzed

and foaming at the mouth.

I’ve called her death

and they’ve called her lifeless,

two remarks that said together,

crack a cruel line about her face.

If carved, it’d stay there for good,

but no such beauty

could she ever forever, fake.

I am inclined to be true and false

in the same moment,

the same breath,

just to resurrect the spine

I once had.

Those dark, furious lashes

the ones batting at

and inside me

rub me the wrong way.

I am intoxicated once again

with the fuel of her fire,

the demon engine that coaxes

my inner desires

to come out, and be free.

Ah yes, she does weave

in and out of me

the most common allures,

infatuation and possibility.

I am prolonged epilepsy,

joined at the hip with this

mounting devastation.

She weaves…

She weaves uncontrollably

with no intention

of ever stopping.