Composure

Composure

 

Eyes wide open when I drop the glare

But my mouth is still sealed

Stitched butterflies tattoo my lips

Not even an ocean of brandy can cure

The dumb.

Black smudged and jagged

Running fast from the lines which were

For a moment perfectly hiding the dirt

And then plunged, a picture in hands

Being worn, being torn, because underneath

There’s only silence and filth.

Blurry faces swim in-between tears

Caught in lashes, but they all ignore

a human fountain bleeding black and evil.

The hatred spirals and vision narrows

Until all I see are perfect ankles

Gracefully touring the streets

avoiding all the places I have wetted.

Bright sighs and another attempt

to paint myself in black and white

something I can believe in for a moment,

before the beautiful skin begins to peel away

from my flesh, grey and naked

something must have bound my hands

because I feel butterflies tickle there

and a distant memory in my heart

stops beating.

The grey merges and I see some pain

in black and white taking dainty steps

artless

my work is done, and undone.

© PickledSparklyMoosePrincess – author

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