his blood smeared on your skin like oil paints smeared on a canvas.
—it felt aesthetic.
so you asked him for more of his blood. he slit his wrist in a heartbeat, letting the smell of metallic filled the air. the butter knife cut opened his artery, the artery poured down his blood.
he had eyes shone bluer than the sky, pierced through yours while red droplets dripping on your black winter coat.
made it seemed darker than black.
by then he was already dawn of lilac sky,
while red was all you saw.
look inside your refrigerator, you stacked bottles and bottles and bottles of his blood neatly there. the light gleaming on the sleek glass stated his holiness perfectly. it looked almost like a shrine. his own truly red shrine.
almost.
oh, cause he would not believe how toxic his blood was. so toxic.
God, too toxic for you.
the black screen television was a witness to this sin. it watched you drank his blood straight from the bottle. your tongue tasted his sweet metallic taste. red stains on your teeth. fire burning in your throat. you wondered did he know that his blood was a damn strong liquor?
soon, you're going to drown in your pearly white marble bathtub filled with the rich deep red of his blood. so thick of his crimson celestial taste, it will feel like flower petals all over your bare skin.
//—or have you drowned already?
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.
