You had managed to drag yourself
to the foot of the stairs before you
had fallen into a crumpled sleep.
You had left behind your blood
which had travelled with you, like a snails
trail. For the first time in 13 years
I ignited a ciggarette inside this
bricked up world of yours. Knowing
you couldn't even smell that glorious
smoke let alone try and stop me.
I sat down on the bottom stair, and
lovingly stroked your blood splattered hair.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Some profoundly sick stuff in this series.