The Ripper

Where is your laughter?
It's in my throat
See how it cracks, while raped by otherness,
While still awaiting
A truthful absolution,
A light, sweet feel to make it utter
Without distinctive noise, and in the graciousness
Of low octaves, the trademark of sincerity;
Silence, the breastfed child of selfness…
Still, where is your laughter?
Can't you hear it?
This hoarse babble, devoid of chastity,
Lacking in foolishness and high hopes,
A sour, dry lip losing its thirst.
My faint lust, a spinster blush that missed its ripeness
While rotten from within, with self-doubt.
The ripper is near me -
My laughter is his, whereas his hatchet
Is now in my hands,
Pointing at me.