At least I can still feel pain.
But sometimes it's too much, And sometimes it's not enough. I don't want your numbers, they represent time, setting pace to a rhythm, but this rhythm has no rhyme. I'll paint my lungs in black, and all the walls in red, to remind myself, that I'm not dead. Her eyes matched the shade, of her lips that were stained, with the red from the vines, and the kisses she claimed. It doesn't stop, it just flies, the lonely aging of time, a reckless riddle with no rhyme.
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Darkness haunts you,
in the most beautiful way. I can't stop replaying, your hands and their ways. Trembled my body, I felt what you felt, I felt what you felt. How wrong it is, I love the marks, you leave on me. Bruises like tattoos, in hidden parts, average eyes can't see. How wrong it is, I love your twisted logic, explosive temper, beatifully tragic. Strike the pain out of me, which stings more, than anything you could do physically. I seek shelter in your body, only solace found in your satisfaction. Like I finally got something right, like you would stay for more than the night. Fill this sillhoette haunted by the cowards, not brave enough to wade through the waters. Drown it with the hope, you're so good at mocking. Soften this vignette, as if you're not like the others. |
Sydne Kilberg"She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something." Archives
February 2016
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