These ink-covered white
ponies are my saviors.
My safe places died so that I could embalm
them with technicolor.
It's midnight and I
Frankenstein myself once more.
I dye my complex feelings with whatever,
so their clothes are not too
difficult to remove.
I die only when I stop
dreaming.
YOU ARE READING
PERCHED PARCHED BUTTERFLY
PoetryYour voice is the paint I take to the sky, splattering it all over, so they can all know you're nigh.