Thursday, February 25, 2016

Bitter Moon

A crimson wind, sharp and biting
it comes again
predictably unpredictable

His touch, a leaden mud, a crystal glass
The highest yellow note,
singing
shattering
refracting

His voice like tumbling gravel
creeps toward my mouth
choking me
a sensation
not unlike
drowning

His words
a sheet of stinging rain
wriggling and
crawling underneath
and moving restlessly
within
my skin

His grimace is
blinding
binding
blackest violence

That cold metal smile
teeth like fresh tar
sharp like shark's eyes

His fist
an explosion of green glitter
the scent of derision

Face to the floor

Who knew
love could smell like
defeat?

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