you say my body is that of a baroque masterpiece, romanticism, renaissance, scripture written by gods long forgotten, speaking in their mother tongues, unknown to living souls.
You drip with words thick and sweet as honey, your hand drapes across my jaw in fantasied euphoria.
Can you hear the church bells?
Does the ringing sound the same to you?
Get giddy off gin and lemon juice,
whisper poetry against her chest, bite the supple skin of his fingers, possessed by light and madness, drifting in and out of sleep,
your slaughterhouse, your haunted walls, your funeral parlour.
Rest your eyes darling, it's okay to be weary. We cut ourselves to pieces and serve it as a jigsaw puzzle.
YOU ARE READING
Hysterical letters to my sanity
Poezjaa collection of poems inspired by stories I've read, people I've met and paths I've crossed, read and enjoy yourself:)
