This love is turning to blood and tears instead of milk and honey, a bastard child of pain and hopelessness.
It still comes to see me, a yellow baby bird. "Not now, soon, it is coming, I will be yours", I sing to it softly, when no one comes. It flies off, satisfied.
I speak to god but the sky is empty. I scream to the night and the stars are silent. I whisper to him but his eyes are mirrors.
Come closer and I'll hold your hand, I'll whisper beautiful, rhetoric words in your ear, pretend they're meaningful. Hold me closer, get me naked, look at this cadaver masquerading for a body. Jouons au cadavre exquis. I'm your marionette, tied on strings. Hurt me because I can't imagine sex as a good thing. Pretend to want me. My lips will quiver, my whimpers will be choreographed.
I'll get dressed, the clothes make me happy, my disguises. But there is no YSL they can sell that can free my heart. Where are the cameras? Where is the proof that the last 1/60th of a second was real, where is god? Where's my yellow bird, my last hiding place?