Stage 7
White is not the colour for you
Just like the guy beside you
His hands are all over you
But you're not the only one he comes to
He claims to love you and praises your work,
He calls you his Aphrodite but you're the devil, my love
You always dress up with daffodils in your hair
Hoping the dead would stay away
You're running from the ghost
I suppose Little Mary is still afraid
High heels, short dress, flaunting those breast is a sin according to you.
Guess we have to wait for your past life to catch up to you.
I dream of you sitting infront of a mirror combing my hair.
I yell that it pains,
You just stop and stare
Those black orbs are so vague and empty
I swear I'll get rid of them on my pinky
The sun was seconds away from disappearing
Seeing that you gracefully dived from the tenth storey
Your hair and dress flapping in the wind
At that point I wanted time to stand still
You survived but the aftermath was dreadful
There was blood, weeping and me sitting on the corner stool
Eerie silence had entered my life
Power and hope had now become two tools in my life.
Running was of no use now as he was at the door
I took a pillow to mama's face hence, finally opening the door.
~Iris. May 20th 2021~
YOU ARE READING
Cashmere Nights
PoetryA girl who writes sad poems. If you're a LANA DEL REY stan you've come to the right place.
