Sin and Suicide

it's no surprise i'm here again
when you are still so shallow.
you act as if these sheets
belonged to Jesus himself:
white, pure and holy.
even he had a whore once.

i know you; know your bones
are haunted by a memory of
other hands tracing coy shadows
along the concave of your spine.
loving you never hurt as much as
belonging underneath your skin.

in the morning you won't go back to her
but you won't stay here, either.
you'll tell me love is suicide and
the only thing we ever shared was a
cheap night and an orgasm. but as always
you were wrong.