It's Not Murder

Rip my flesh with savage glee,
Strands of sinew dangling
Torn arms sprouting crimson wings,
Weeping tears of agony.

Carve open my heaving chest
Where those squirming organs pump,
Sink that cruel knife deep inside
Hack out all which you've possessed.

Watch the pale intestines spill,
Twisted ropes that lie within.
Loop them round my straining throat,
Hang me till this body's still.

You've made me a masochist.
It's not murder, since I'm dead.
Finish what was started, love:
You stabbed at my heart and missed