poetry for the poetic: 5

XXVIII

switchblades pulled from boots
and cigarettes, ends dipped in gold.
your lips are coated in glitter,
making cruel words so pretty,
and your nails are red like blood.
.
beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
and you are something to hold,
caress, grip tightly and firmly –
you are not fragile.
you are steel.
.
pink leather jackets and the thrum of a motorcycle,
a laugh like a cackle
and a revved up engine.
we step aside to let you pass,
parting a dark sea of blank faces.
.
you are a halo, golden and shining bright.
you are a pistol tucked into a waistband.
you are the studs on your shoes,
the sharp points of winged eyeliner,
and the hair, freshly shorn by the nap of your neck.
.
you are a masterpiece of light-hearted fury,
and you dance in the rain of your own storm.
blissful and reckless, you scream.
your wail pieces the heavens and the earth,
inviting angels and demons to play.