It feels nothing compared to
how nothing feels in the cold bathroom air.
You're a hollow red-raw mess dipped
in pale blue cyanide.
Steamy mirror cuts against the broken tiles
and a museum of chaotic art wedge beneath
your ribcage; something's slowly
making you fade away into the caving walls.
How untamed, lifeless trauma can be
when you decide to burn it before yourself.
For you'd forget her than yourself
before you remember this night and not someone else.
The skies burn onto the last thing cracked out of your knuckles—
how white in lifelessness, molten orange in bleeding pain;
The quietest metaphor buries itself into your bruised woes.
-there's no looking back once the skies burn into rosewater blood and orange burns.
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A/N: Did the little stars get burnt too? I wish they were here to cheer all of us up! :)
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
