Who would compare my skin to champagne,
Like a pompous Dionysian,
As it falls, yellow, off the bone? No one,
I'm afraid, and I mount a fear,
of rotting in the dark alone. And who,
Among lambs, would hold these hands,
Letting these claws shred them to the marrow? So you, My killer, head of gold and silver,
With your haughty eye and wry smile,
Pierce a gored cadaver, with no tool better,
Than your discerning blue stare.
A great lion, dying without his pride,
Now a body unto none others, kindly.
You peer into the lion's den, beneath the chest,
Into an angry beehive.
Your words come sweetly, to meet me,
In the hour of my love's pyrrhic fall,
"Your heart is full of sugar and honey,
And would make a great place for a home."
And even if my heart cannot swell, and cannot beat,
You give me your pity, but I still die alone,
Because I know you can't say the word
Unlovable.