that there are birds in your demon hole 
or that you have eaten 
pottery while hoping for my pizza
mouthing our names in
crimson drool as the
steam rises from this 
story
and it isn’t true that the
front page of this
newspaper reads
“There are no more lovers left” 
because the font just got 
fucked up and was supposed to say
“There are no more love moves left” and 
that is true because 
you are the holy demon of my love mucking
you are the pie upon which my
pepperoni begs to burn and I have
waited for you to pray my blood
I have begged for your mud 
and all the while the 
magpie that is your mouth 
flew around inside of me and made
everything feel real go free and
who cares if my
heart turned pigeon guts and got
smeared in some
back alley 
‍Yes you love me! I will
scream till my 
voice burns blue
till there are no more
lies except for me when it
comes to you.