between the gravestones
marked with names
i have long forgotten
the poppies grow
they are the same color as the cherries
on his lips
lips made of lace and snow
as soon as his warmth is gone
his touch melts on my skin
as though never there
and it is that cold i long for
he calls me darling
the word is smooth on his tongue
coated in honey, like the daffodils
bleeding through his eyes
he drawls the word
darling
like it is scrawled across his heart
and with each whispered tone
he draws it over mine
the pretty pictures painted black
with each ashen stroke he brushed in
bursts of colored sunsets decorated by artists
far above our heads
dipping, tilting, i can taste his breath
warm, and candy woven
my scarred hands held between soft palms
tracing the length of my fingers
curled into his shirt
begging
stay
darling, calm down
his pretty words like those poppies
marigolds and pink roses
darling
he hums against my neck, growing bouquets
of purple orchids and blue petals
they bloom so intricately with his
between my toes, my lips, my lashes
in every crevice of a heart beating for his words
darling
am i pretty, am i pretty
darling, you grow more beautiful each day
every corner of his mind
he says, come in
these doors are yours to open
he knows all the secrets my secrets haven't found
he pressed kisses to my wrists
darling, i love you so
my darling love is mine to hold
i will never let go
darlings, you're so beautiful, and you grow more beautiful each day. i love you all so much. please take care of yourselves.
YOU ARE READING
lovely | poetry
PoetrySometimes my voice dies in my throat, buries itself beneath waves of crippling suffocation, burns itself out as cold hands tear at my laced skin. I have smiled while my eyes have cried and pleaded, my wrists numb, my lips wobbling and blue, and star...
