your orange lips are the taste of the rift left by the extinguished sun where she dipped into the nectar of the sea; i hate them just as i hate you. don't smear citrus-scented amends upon my brow; don't carelessly pin me with sympathy that bleeds sunset-red on my chest like a medallion of pulled teeth. darling, just slip me a bottle of sedative tears before the silver-lined curtains close; my gelatinous heart never does well with goodbyes. my final request: lock the door on your way out and keep the elevator music playing 'til sunrise.
YOU ARE READING
CYANIDE DREAMER
Poetrysaturn rises from the valley of my neck and sets in the folds of my hell-drunken veins [ #1 in poetry, 1.25.19 ]