she wears her blood like peach juice
on her white sleeve,
like the soft sponge of baby skin,
creased like melting snow.
i wear my blood like beetroot
on my cracked lips,
like dirt speckles on butterfly wings.
and my salty tongue stabs
and stabs and stabs,
pain racking through me
like a cracking whip.
and sleep shades the
aching morning from her
grey eyes,
tortured and taunted
by the desire of fire.
sleep twists the spine of the clock
awkwardly, and night
gallops past my window
without my notice,
colouring my eyes to black.
yet morning canters by,
painting them blue again.
and strips of skin,
bits of sinew
part with her being and
drop to the soft carpet beneath.
i come across recognisable
shreds of me,
washed clean and new by the
rainbow morning,
and i am the jigsaw which
clicks together nicely,
pastel flesh and blood
and bone and skin,
eyeing her with the rest,
our inoffensive colours clashing
like cymbols against her
red and black.
written: (finished) Saturday 15th May, 2004, 10:35pm
Gender:
Points: 890
Reviews: 321