baisers de la tombe - poetry

a tragedy.

she gave him the knife,
placed it in the palm of his pernicious hand,
the same hand that buried itself in her curves,
slender fingers tracing patterns on her skin.
she craved for his touch,
a slave to his desire.

no matter what else his hands would do,
she loved him
and he (never) loved her.
her mind warned her, intrusive thoughts became part of her routine.

"don't follow your heart"

she did.

she handed him the chance to ruin her without a second thought.

tear stains painted her skin,
as she closed her eyes preparing for eternal slumber
blinded by love everyone told her.

a beautiful cliché.

oh she knew,
but she didn't mind.

the point caressed her skin just as his hands had once before
but nevertheless,
she welcomed the touch, knowing it would be her last.

"till death do us part"

intrusive thoughts weren't the antidote to his nefarious disease.
he remained engraved into her skin, a memorial to his touch.

she was his, his memory forever a tradmark of her suffering,
but he was never hers.

he ripped out her heart and held it in his hands.
remaining nonchalant as he expressed adoration towards his work.
the knife dripped in fresh sin as
her mind cursed her heart for being inane.
an utter fool. an obtuse fool.

blood stained his delicate skin
painting a symbol of tragedy,
their (her) tragedy.
but red was his favourite colour right?

the worst part was that she'd let him do it again.
he could break her heart,
shatter it into a thousand peices
it was only ever his to break.