Dear Mode,
Pure eyes, blue like a glassy bead---
You are always looking at me
and I am always looking at you.
Ah, you're too meek ---
beautiful, unspoiled:
thus I'm so sad, I suffer---
and so happy, it hurts.
I want to hurt you
and destroy myself
What you would think
if you knew how I felt.
Would you simply smile,
not saying a word?
Even curses from your mouth
would be as beautiful as pearls.
I place my left hand on your
face as though we were to kiss.
Then I suddenly shove my thumb
deep into your eyesocket.
Abruptly, decisively,
like drilling a hole.
And what would it feel like?
Like jelly?
Trembling with ecstasy, I obscenely
mix it around and around: I must
taste the warmth of your blood.
How would you scream?
Would you shriek "It hurts!
It hurts!" as cinnabar-red tears
stream from your crushed eye?
You can't know the maddening
hunger I've felt in the midst of
our kisses, so many of them
I've lost count.
As though drinking in your cries,
I bring my hopes to fruition:
biting your tongue, shredding it,
biting at your lips as if tasting
your lipstick.
Oh, what euphoric heights I would
reach, having my desires fulfilled
like a greedy, gluttonous cur.
I longed, too, for your cherry-tinted
cheeks, tasty enough to bewitch my
tongue.
I would surely be healed,
and would cry like a child.
And how is your tender ear?
It brushes against my cheek;
I want it to creep up to my lips so
I can sink my teeth into its flesh.
Your left ear, always hearing words
whispered sweet as pie ---
I want it to hear my true feelings.
I never lied, no...
but I did have my secrets.
Ah, but what must you think of me?
Do you hate me? Are you afraid?
As though inviting you to the agony
at the play's end; if you wish, you
could destroy me --- I wouldn't care.
As you wish, you may destroy me
--- I wouldn't care.
