There is a burning white hot star in my breast
with your secret name engraved on it,
and the dates, and times we sat together,
and dined on each others bitter hearts.
You were no saint, and I no angel,
but lord and lady we were of self infliction,
vain indulgence, and vice.
Dark scarlet as the blood in a syringe
was the passion we knew,
as it pricked, pinched, and stabbed,
while we screamed, fought, kissed and made love.
But it was beautiful then, even in all of it’s terror.