Artist.

Cigarette burns
That make angels curse.
Your wrists are bound
With rope and words.

Kisses on your neck
And fists to the throat.
White knuckles wrapped tight,
As you begin to choke.

Bloodstains on the floor,
Spit, shit and more.
Scratches on the walls,
Knives mark bed-posts deep.

Cough when you can,
Always gasp for air.
And you're naked in your thoughts,
To whoever else is there.

Pushed apart,
Entered in.
Handprints mark the grasps,
Traced along bruises and marks.

Keep your food up to stay fragile,
Numb and so cold.
Bones mirror your smile,
Now you call this place a home.

Opened up,
Never treated right.
Hips thrown into bruising,
Thrust towards the floor.

You're forced,
And always sore.
Fingers press,
And words and more.

You're bones are traced,
You're touched and enjoyed.
Bleeding from a dismantled weapon,
You're fucked and called a whore.

Cheeks become curtains,
Drawn apart to enjoy the view.
But the window is torn and broken,
Weeping, always open.

You learn to dance with cigarette smoke,
With a needle's vibe,
And things to make you choke.
I've seen you swallow but never eat.

And you're pink and pale,
And bruised and red.
As you lie awake to be asleep
On the broken spring bed.

Your bodies marked with cigarette burns,
Your spines a story to be learnt.
Your arse becomes your favourite weapon,
Your cunt becomes your way to heaven.

You leave that home and said goodbye,
And thank the floor.
Your skin is bruised and cut some more,
And hands run through your pores.

You eat and swallow,
And puke and feast.
You're entered often,
To find a release.

You learn to always never cry,
When leather misses and hits your thigh.
Metal feels cold but you let it in,
The transistor feelings make you sing.

You chase to catch the perfect skin,
You move so much to be always thin.
You open wide and always smile,
You swallow and look towards their grin.

You're bruised along track-lines,
Where you've let them in,
Fish-nets torn in places,
So welcoming.

Your thong's pulled down,
Or pushed aside.
Fingers run across,
Tongue and lips collide.

Your breasts become handles,
When you swing your head back.
Let them run their tongue,
From neck to navel's depth.

Your hips are held on,
Like clothes cutting in tight.
You bend over if not on your knees,
And you always whisper "please."

Your arse becomes a playground,
For many new and old things.
Your vagina makes wonders,
Out of loneliness and needs.

Your breasts become a signal,
That you're there to please.
Your bones and skin are reminders,
That you're wanting to be seen.

And there's cigarette burns on your wrists,
And darkness flowing off your lips.
And you've always known how to tease,
That this all started at age fifteen.