hurt all of the ill

every Sunday or Monday when you realize you're alive, 
think of me, not up all night, but sleeping tight. 
there I am in your head in the bed of new legs,
purring and humming, arching and cumming,
saying the same things I said to you back then. 

no one is having a better time than me in your head, 
and no one will love you like I loved you
on the second floors of restaurants or the roofs of tenements,
where which we argued and fucked and forgot about it all,
and no one will care to hold those doors open out and in,
unless I am dead.

why do we seize, 
cutting hearts in half and time like butchers
in the back of the business, resisting existence
like it will last forever or something?
think about that last question point
when you kiss another him and he doesn't hum
with love like you'd prefer. 

spill me times seven in you ribs and beans,
but don't blame me or ignore us,
because you are just as much to blame,
rhyme my name on October
and there is no taming lions, trust me,
so good luck with your visions.