He broke me like a little porcelain vase
where he used to keep fresh lilies and carnations.
I remained there, broken into a hundred pieces;
no one bothered to pick me up—
for they were afraid they would cut their fingers
and bleed red like me, smeared with warm blood.
Stormy blue deliria in my thighs;
I devoured the falling moon.
Swollen eyes stained in ruby red;
A hazy whisper like a goodnight came by
You've been abandoned; you were left.
But I don't want to crumple like leaves.
My lungs are blue in smoke—a thin smoke
from his cigarette; I don't hate it today.
It smells like me, the auric red—
my hands are stained with; death.
He's made of cerulean poetry, fading in the pale winter snow.
I'm his little preface before he was written;
I draw parallel echoes on his bare shoulder—
fevered with psalms of forgiving and gentle love.
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A/N: The narrator deserves some sympathetic votes; I feel sorry for her. Let's vote to cheer her up!
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||