your scent mingles with the tobacco in the air;

I cannot tell which is more deadly.

your words sink into the crevices of my skin

every part of me an adjective you thought it to be;

no matter how hard I scrub, you don't seem to budge.

you have switched all the words in my dictionary

I no longer know good from bad, pain from pleasure;

after all, numb words bear no feeling.

many have named such beautiful disasters 'love',

my dictionary knows not the meaning

for you have torn the papers and scratched out the words.

(I know now; you desired something temporary, ephemeral

and what better way to get away with it

than to deprive the other of a single feeling for fear it would last?)

I am a used paper, laden with creases

I am dripping with the remnants of your bitterness

they seep into my blood and something new is born; I sense it burning within me.

many have named such catastrophes 'magical'

but the kind of magic you possess is neither pleasant nor amusing

it is the sorcery we fear, and I have fallen deep.