my wine stained dress that hangs in my wardrobe of white is something I would never throw away.
Fridays for the boys, Saturdays for the girls, Sundays for the lonesome.
a lover once said 'you have wine lips' and I fell in love that easily.
wine is rich, the colour of love, the scent of lust.
wine is a slow killer when you break it down, a lover and survivor tries to return.
the wine lips I kissed onto yours are now with you forever, when you get lonely or see a pretty face, you might lick your lips to have the remainders of me on your tongue.
i sometimes drag myself up the stairs into the other room to stare at the white dress that hangs alone like a Sunday, maybe to check if I'm still there, or if I'm still here.
nothings real anymore.
and dresses are just memory.
YOU ARE READING
constantines fragility
Poetryfor the girls growing into girlhood to women, who are looking for the answer of reason.
