flakes.
i’m crumbling
right from the tips of my fingers
to the center of my chest
these ashy flakes
are beginning to come off
in rock sized chunks, now
and, to be honest
i don’t like the way
my neon heart
is pumping against
my transparent chest
it makes me feel vulnerable.
i don’t know why
the smoked fog
filled with backstabbing lust
and long lost bottles
of crimson blood
bothers me so much.
maybe it’s the jars of torn off fingers
and grey chicken bones
that keeps me from
wanting to plant my disintegrating lips
onto your glowing cheeks.
i don’t want the pulse
to echo on my monitor again
i don’t want it to soar high
and then slide back down
Iid rather die now
my bloodsucking Dissembler
like all of your other victims.
YOU ARE READING
untitled.
PoetryStars and painted candlelights are the only things that bother to keep me sane, these days. But it's okay. I know you're trying. (My first posted poetry collection)
