I am the villian in your storybook,
the dragon you valiantly splatter across the pages
in the final chapter.
I am your most violent words,
the sound of breaking and the loss of innocence.
(I am the glass shard in your heart,
the inescapable wound).
I pretend that the syllables of your name
do not violate the edge of my tongue,
but you dull me down to a gentle curve
with your veritable virtue.
It is not your body I wish to victimize,
but your soul; I want to view the parts
that make you less than whole.
(you cut me open, vivisect my most
important organ until it beats only for you).
I am not variable, I am constant.
(i am still ticking between your fingers).