To endure this unwanted desire,
We use blissful torture to ease the pain.
This painful curse: love, one that is dire.
Our painful cure: a blade, rinsed clean by the rain.
The warm, bright red liquid slowly spills out.
Stains everything and won't come clean with soap.
We can't let anyone see, they would shout.
We can't die, not yet, for we still have hope.
Only love's tears will wash away the stain,
And purify the blood red snow angel.
But we remain stained, to suffer our pain.
They are angels, we are demons of hell.
Our dark desires: cured by sweet tortures.
This, our painful cure for our painful curse.
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