The cold wine scorches your chapped lips;
the flame burns in fluorescent whispers,
it whispers about her.
You drink and drink 'til
everything turns frozen as ice-white
in the blasphemous hymns.
Shades of neon color the ashes gold.
Another sip.
She's dead.
No warmth escapes from your eyes.
Your veins are static blue without her.
Roses are tearing apart.
Moments of sherry, caffeine talks,
nicotine love, late-night apologies
pressed like dead flowers
in between moth-eaten pages.
You're dying step by step.
The promises build constellations upon
the silence of phosphorus.
The coffee tastes stale on your lips.
You watch and wither away.
Pretty girls never cry.
Pretty girls never fade away.
Pretty girls like you hide their bruises
under their long sleeves
'til you drown in the runny red rivers.
And it's okay — we're all children of broken skies and weeping angels.
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 ||
