Anaesthetise Me

Sometimes love can seem like a lie, dressed up, put on, and inserted into our souls.

Put me under your spell,

Whilst you cut out my heart,

Leaving a part of yourself,

An imprint, a scar,

On my mind;

So that, when I awake,

I’ll find myself lost,

To run with your scream,

To your carnal core,

For it’s all I’ve known,

Since I’ve gone under,

Helpless in my mind of gas,

Soaking slumberer.

When the knife comes down,

I’ll feel nothing,

Trusting in unforgettable visions,

Upon lack of mysterious memories;

When I wake,

I’ll remember nothing

Relevant to my escape,

Your casebook of lies

Quilting me, smug safety surmounting.

But soft! Eve’s ignorance was joy,

Just as mine is conceding to your existence,

Your slices of dreams-

Are you cutting me open?

The one who’s bedside-waiting,

Replacing my soul there

With a candle-lit vigil,

For night can have no shadows,

Living in the corners of that lack.

I return with a start,

Yet the dream is tenseless-

Always there, waiting to be filled,

In lieu of enlightenment,

Such deceit not the tear,

Passed away with some other laceration.

Voluntary amnesia,

Selective Cartesian distortion;

What cannot feel are the breaks

Across the form’s entirety,

They are the blind, though leaders,

Receptors stumped by more dressing,

Right until the finale;

Turn my pressure up,

Dial by dial,

Smoother by glass incisions,

Innately based in fractures,

No longer escaping,

Through blind insight, on-paper joy,

I’ll see those results when I’m out,

That discouragement removed,

A quick snip at the sirens of sense;

Let it reverberate in the empty space,

And place down the senseless template,

When I am worn.

When the pain is over,

I am begging, I am crying…

You will anaesthetise me

Once again,

One shot of rapture more.

The End

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