he sold his soul to you, wrapped neatly with the ribbons of his arteries.
you peeled layer and layer of his skins, picked at his bones, and made a necklace from his collarbone. tied his hair around your wrist tightly until your blood spilt and your hand cut off from your arm.
you presented it to him on a silver plate, but he sewed it back to your arm with the string of his veins.
he kissed your wrist, the pulse under the layer of your skin, interlaced his fingers and yours with prayer hid behind his eyes. his grip on your hand tightening with every echo of your breath,
and so did the dagger pressed at your throat.
YOU ARE READING
THE LOVERS
Poetryboth weep for the thorns in their skulls when the sun is killed and summer has gone by and the rain is acidic. tragic is they are mortals, and mortals are made of greed and unholy prayers.
