Self-Portrait in Hell

with venom in my veins
from (s)words:
“just friends”,
your coup de grâce delivered late.

My heart still beating
right beneath my skin
to be ripped apart

Self-Portrait in Hell by Edvard Munch

This is for Rommy and the darker side of love at toads.

February 16, 2018

21 responses to “Self-Portrait in Hell

  1. Some people only feel love when it’s given by hands that know how to hurt them (well).

    We can be major sickos sometimes.

    Excellent poem. I could just eat its guts out, blood, bile, and all.

    I find the ending to be enticingly erotic.

  2. Isn’t it strange that “friend” could be such a cruel word? Wonderful poem, Björn, although I hope it isn’t autobiographical.

  3. kaykuala

    right beneath my skin ready
    to be ripped apart again.

    Lots of dark moments must have gone under the bridge!


  4. Agghhh!! The friend-zone! What does it actually mean, anyway? Just friends? Someone too self-indulgent to be forthright, and quit the relationship.

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