The Screaming

F**k if I can tell you how old this is.

Death is my art
and my burden.
Rain drops kiss my cheeks
like acid on the petals of a baby tulip.

Through her deafening screaming,
the blood will not stop streaming.
Through painful touches, dreaming,
awake she lays, and vacant,
forever,
in my arms,
encased in her blood
and theirs.

No amount of acid tears can kiss this memory from my arms,
not even my own.