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My Nazi Solider Boy
He called me a quarter to ten.
I started crying half past eleven.
The story is so simple,even Lal Ded
would be able to read the words.
The blood on your hands melted with your sordid skin,
and fell into your veins, pumping new life through your body.
You claimed that killing helped you live,
helped you live with the torment of a haunted past.
Are the murders the reason for the scars dancing next to your swastika?
A white-supremacist with a beautifully shaped head.
Only you could pull off a close shave, at close range, a desert eagle pointed at you between the eyes.
The pistol missed, scratching your face, leaving it's memory with a trail of gun powder residue and disdain.
The bullet wound matches perfectly with your personality.
Do you ever wonder why they want to hurt you?
Their sable flesh crawls at the tone of your voice.
I sometimes find myself wanting to run my fingers through your
champagne colored hair.
And the realization that it no longer exists, shocks me into believing
the spite you preach.
I wanted you to be my master, to pull me back by the collar
when I became too close.
But the leash began to strangle me.
I was yours from far away.
You taught me that sex was not important,
unless you wanted to bind me by the burns on wrist and kiss my ankles until they bled.
I learned how to hate unconditionally, and my heart beat twice what it used to.
One thump for each broken half.
I remember being able to see your breath, with each cold word.
You froze my lips shut.
The freedom to speak is overrated anyway.
You are my god.
I kneeled in front of your altar and followed "Mien Kompf" entirely.
All because you tugged my hair and showed me how to take a hit.
The phone spoke the truth, as you acknowledged my presence in your life.
"I love you".
The words tasted like oranges tainted with strychnine as they jumbled together and fell from my tongue.
I'm still listening to the dial tone,
hoping you will say them back.
