Mete out the blood,
drop by drop,
beat by beat.

I can hear you in my veins,
feel you etched
along the inside of my bones,
an electric drone,

a humble buzz,
declaring me your hive,
filling each cell
with queens desperate to be fucked

and abandoned.

I gave you far too much power
for any ten men to wield;
no wonder you never had hands
strong enough to use it —
after all this time,
I may be ready to admit:

perhaps I was the sun;

dazzled by my light,
you simply flew
too close to me.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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