you were supposed to have the taste as sour as the rotten apple on your kitchen table, or as bitter as your gaze to the gods, or as salty as the blood from the bite on your tongue.
pour your very essence into a cup of liquid rat poison, yet it tasted more like that rainy day when you killed the angels, and nectar oozing from the sun's wound when you stole its light, and sauternes of the sky's lamentation when you split it apart like an orange.
you tasted like heaven's first sin.
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.
