Dead Virgins

It could be true that I was always this way
A smoggy heart, a smiling wasteland
A trap from which all memories escape
Slit wrists and vacant eyes my only asset
As I argue with vultures over
When they should begin to tear into me
(The sooner, the better)

But perhaps the beast I was before was far crueler
And the thing I am today is a blessing,
(At least for those whose souls I’ve known)
For as I am aware of how wicked and selfish
My feeble love had bloomed
The garden from which it was originally plucked
Must be overgrown with cruelties

Another option still:
I was a pure thing, now dirtied.
By action… or inaction
By my own hands… or by forces beyond even the Gods
Either way I blame myself
Either way I can’t be fixed
Either way I am abandoned

(Is this heart made of stone or glass?)

Still, flesh belongs to those who are living
And I must poison everything I touch
You should run before my dirty veins meet yours