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between your finger and thumb,
Ever the warmongering victim,
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Roses are poison
And his lips speak pain
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Sureness in that pressure,
And this is a death of me,
by The Black Iris
33 lines, 2 comments,
on May 30 8:58 PM. In Personal, Love, Thoughts, Life, Sad, Pain, Angst, My life, Longing, Friendship, Self
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and choke upon
the pills I promised you I would not touch
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And every part of me
Is expelled in a puff of smoke,
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Gaping glass smile dribbling
like the dregs of vodka
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Sticks like cardboard in her mouth,
Lips glued tight,
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You aren’t real anymore and I disown our memories,
(Not that there ever were any sober),
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Those little infidelities
that slip from the prongs of a fork
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You remind me of a lot of things
as you smile and dimples
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Heartbeat under the palm
of her hand,
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This Alice-band of guilt
and a broken ring in my lip;
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Not a bite,
A good girl will never swallow –
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My melodies sit in the palm of your hand,
Fragile as these bones you tended,
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Whorls of my fingertips exchanging
Cells, cells, cells with something
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He hammers the hammer on the wooden circle
A murderous murmur sweeping the tiers
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Elephants and matchsticks caught in combat;
Dirty girl
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Graphite dots,
Looking at the world through a spoon.
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The strum of tangled wire cutting into
This deformed puppet
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Out of the misty memory landscape
Where ropes cling
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How I love the acidity of emptiness,
I find such beauty in the agony of shrinking.
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Memories snaking away into the
Crop of stars that pass away to oblivion.
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He came to my bed and saw my ribs,
Eyes bright and the golden strands woven in his hair;
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The last threads of innocence are breaking
As the sprite pulls free to fly
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Walking in your urban hell,
All the rust clinging to your hands as you stumble
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Why am I forbidden from anger when you destroy my opinion,
bait me and accuse me of irrationality?
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My gold hidden deep in you,
Your rainbow skin and willow pattern lips.
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Addictive narcotic,
The burns your hands and lips have left
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Effervescent colour rests,
The purity of green in stark contrast
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One day I might wake up
to find that I cannot recall the freckle
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It would spill out against citrus orange
as fire does against the morning sun, half-blended,
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But he shall never know what comes after him,
Forgotten in his cradle of earth,
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Lifting further, the King of Day rises,
His eyes to open and spread golden silk upon this place,
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Steal my frontal lobe and prefrontal cortex
in this non-consensual lobotomy,
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And when others turned away,
the Passive Blue was there
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