Blood On Your Fingers



Drinking beer while reading the Atrocity Exhibition, I remember the taste of their lips and the ageless love they held in their widened eyes. Hushed fears as they sighed beneath a sky of hidden stars. Leaves and death, in every breath that ever left their lungs. Now just an empty bedroom, the evening tastes of car crashes and severed limbs. Dreams of dying in the early afternoon, and the secrets that swim within sedated minds. Black hearted lover. Destroyer of relationships. Bored by the formalities, by the ordinary pleasures that so many seem to settle for. It always starts with a spark, yet fades like a cigarette in the rain. Adventures in not knowing. Romance without plans. Builders of creation, not of cages. The mind is full of wondrous sights, so why settle on the same old cheapened dreams. Why thirst on the waters of arid wombs. All that used sex, so useless like an idea without violence. Take a knife, and slash the canvas. Inflict on the self, and watch in awe as the words attack the page like acid in the face of a spurned lover. All those damned poets with their stories. All those lost souls wishing for something more. The weight of expectation as lustful as a shard of metal that protrudes from just below your ribcage. Swollen features and milky breasts. Shattered glass like snowflakes in your hair. Debris on your belly like the love of a monster. Blood on your fingers. Perfume where there shouldn’t be perfume. Days of cardboard meaning, now burning on the horizon like a city. Leave them behind. Betray it all. One by one, take my fears and douse them with gasoline. Bend your arms back, and let me fill you up. Let me take control before coming undone on the brink of something meaningful. Oil beneath moonlight, and flashes of light like gunfire in darkness.

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