SO I've recently started writing some weird ass love story stream of consciousness poetry. This all comes from a vivid dream I had. It's very disjointed and kind of raw, but I kind of like it that way. 

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Meg I- I want you to know that this will all be over soon

All the panting Sapphic explosions high above the ground

All the days and nights bleeding together because you're abed

In a miasma of sainthood while I am purifying you through

Pain.

I love these days, Meg, I treasure these days even if

I am immortal. These are the days of your naissance

You are my daughter of the Aztec sun, brought about

Through the perpetual cravings of some dilapidated,

Ancient, undefined other who loves you

Meg, never has anyone tasted as sweet.

I have consumed, and consumed, and consumed

Like a void swallowing universes whole:

My binges leveled cities and tore holes in

Pretty women. Crime scene tape everywhere,

Bloody footprints, blood under my fingernails
Washing my hands in the bathroom sink ugh-

Not again-

God, Karistina, not again- it's so ugly, ugly, ugly-

I lick the water from the stones at the base of your tower

And I taste time. Time condensing. I mark it on

My body and I wear it as my clothing and I bathe

In it, bathe in minutes with seconds sliding against

My naked skin

You don't see. You're asleep, recovering, still

Bound to the bed. I keep you bound because

I have an aesthetic sort of soul, Meg, and I

Want to do this properly. I am a monster,

After all

Do you fear me, Meg? I wonder, when I am

The archaeologist that cracks open your ribcage

And digs through flesh and flesh and flesh

To find your golden Aztec heart, and I tear into it

With my sharp teeth, and pierce it with my sharp nails-

Do you shudder? Do you writhe because of the pain,

Or is it something more?

The room stinks like sex, Meg, and I wonder if you smell it

Or if it's just me. It's not subtle, the thickness in the air,

The wetness in the air, the tang of slick and sweat

That clings to the old stones around us

It assaults me as soon as I push open the wooden door

But then again, maybe you just smell the blood

I never knew there were so many shades of red.

The red crust staining the sheets, cracked and dried,

The red staining your body, and heaped under my nail beds,

The pink bits of stray flesh, and skin, and fat

The raw maroon of muscle, fresh, beating against my hand-

Is this the color of our passion?

I am a cannibal, Meg. I admit it.

The evidence stains my face and I will not wipe it away,

I will not hide because it galls you to see by day

What you crave by night.

I am a cannibal, Meg, but admit it: you like it.

You like me this way.