JUNIE.

PANIC AT THE MIDNIGHT.

its the lack of sleep that makes her run faster than her pulse as her lips drip of blood and bitter honey. she is creating constellations as her body soaks up the mindnight fever of soft kisses and blank whispers.

she is slowly going into drowsiness as the eclipse takes over the night. oh lord, she seems to be turning into her lust linin' plump lips side now. she bobs her head down as his gasps become louder. finshnets and smeared up lipstick, she's a pretty girl who has a drowning spirit.

washed up rainy days that seem to pour on and on as if they are overflowing the wine glasses with holy water. she sucks the nectar from his prickly neck that gets a bit more pale as his body becomes a soulful statue. its not pleasure anymore, its just another chore.

gleam and gore, she tattoos his last words onto her wrists so she can remember how beautiful the moment really was. the blooming sky that seemed to sink within gods true form everytime she looked at the stars that died that dreadful night, she knows what's up.

and i remember talking to her when she was around eighteen, a true beauty queen with hazel eyes and hips that sinked within everyones memorized minds . she had no hair, for she shaved it off long ago so she could look more like her boyfriends first love; her other ex poet companion. he told her that she grieved over her failed devout more than an angel that cried out glitter and muffled prayers.

she was in love with her shadow that got swallowed up as the moon collided with god to form the stars during the birth of love. cheeks dusted with cherry juice and rose water, she has finally bloomed. she highlights the sky with her gushing hues of broken bonds. she joins in the rejoice as she dances with her sins on the cracked up concrete floor. shes washed up against the riptide, she prays for herself.

gold just ain't her color, she's into the pigments of the spectrum. its colored up eyelids that have flowers growing from the eyelashes, its a garden of mental breakdowns. she waters that garden with her tears that brink every sunday morning when the stereo can't block out her sobs.

its a panic of misfortunes that only turn to stories that the stained glass cannot explain itself. she is in the panic of midnight sorrow.

-

this is really
ugly, but lol, i've
been writing this for the
past four days so please
bare with my emo feelings
n' scrambled up synonyms.

+last chapter, thank
you for reading this
book full of weird feelings
and emotions. i'm grateful
and very humbled, thank you
a million times.