Mariya, hold my hand,
Hold my hand and
Lead me to the land
Of your stick figures,
Where it keeps the scores
Of my deeds.
I wish to repent, Mariya.
You said you loved me-
While they stood sentinel over
your chest,
You rushed to hold me
Like war, in the crest.
I stood agape in my front yard-
A prisoner of war- surrendered.
It should have been love,
I know because I felt the shove
Deep in my core
Until my silence tore.
You spoke of the unsewed button
To my shirt, igniting my yarn,
Stroking the stick figures
Away
Nodding an approval my way.
A little lamb's merriment for a human,
Who held the cleaver in her words.
You are a sinner, Mariya.
I laid you upon my heart,
Murmuring the secret
Between the jasmine and the moon,
The story of wilt and wan,
That drove my desire to grief
To hold you close, if brief.
I wrapped you in my arms,
Like the scissor arms
Before it cuts- the flower-
I wilted my flower-
cower.
I killed you, Mariya.
I couldn't see you
dead against my chest,
Now hold my hand, will you?
Clutch my hair as you did best
When I slit your throat
With those pink, pink hands-
Now cerise, with your clot.
Hold it.
☆☆☆☆☆
🤓
A question. Please answer.
Tried writing in dark themes.
Is dark poetry appreciated?