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by Liz

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

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665 Reviews

Points: 6165
Reviews: 665

Thu Feb 03, 2005 4:32 pm
Chevy wrote a review...

I could have sworn I already commented on guess I'm getting old (my birthday IS tomorrow,lol)
But I agree with was very hard to continue on.
she wears her blood like peach juice
This line really agitated me...gave me the shivers.

User avatar
103 Reviews

Points: 890
Reviews: 103

Wed Feb 02, 2005 2:00 am
Tessitore wrote a review...

I have to admit that I had to force myself to keep reading this. It didn't really catch my attention, and I didn't get it. I don't want you to explain your piece (never do that), but you may want to make your work more... breathing. This seemed rather dry and boring.

You can cut all the flowers, but you cannot stop Spring from coming.
— Pablo Neruda