His words are right in my ears, blazing and hot like an intended wildfire in August, burning and free, but he is not beside me.
His eyes are like sculpted ice, sharp and cold but they gleam and fall apart, revealing a broken person, liquid and no longer with a heart.
His smiles are like Cream Soda, artificially sweet but irresistibly delicious, and here I stay, waiting for another sip that will make my stomach hurt, and my head spin.
His hands are like barbed wire, tight and scratchy, they may grip where they please and not let go unless that's what they desire, and the feeling pads like this aforementioned wildfire.
His arms are like thick Vanilla beans, Strong and tough and sweet, but easily overpowering and sharp.
His voice is like a wound, deep and full of matter, but can easily hurt you and cause you pain that you need to numb.
He is so toxically delicious, and I have run out of polysporin and Tylenol.
YOU ARE READING
Poetic Relapse.
PoetryA place for me to write poetry whenever it arises in my lungs, when I have no air to scream these words that haunt me into my days and night
