You were beautiful --
you were so beautiful.
Gods would turn to monsters
and monsters would turn to gods,
for you.
They were all the same,
to you.
You didn't care,
you were a flowerchild
of the modern era.
You were stunning --
you were so stunning.
Ice crystals couldn't
hold a candle
to your symmetry,
to your delicacy,
to your elegance.
You were far too warm,
they'd melt before they could
even light the candle.
Your smile was all
I asked for, your smile.
For your crooked lips
to smile.
I am not beautiful --
I am not.
Those monsters I mentioned,
I am of their species.
I foolishly fell into their cavern,
with no escape.
I drank their mystic water,
I am one of them.
For you to live, I need to die.
A reversal of sorts.
Don't ask me the details,
I just ask that you smile,
that you smile brighter than ever.
In the presence of the gods,
and the monsters.
Especially the monsters.
My blood is your antidote,
except you're no vampiric being.
You're my happiness,
and I'm my own tragedy.
The moment I find a dagger,
the moment I lay my hands on it,
you'll live.
You'll live, you'll live, you'll live.
And we will both be free.
Life is simple, darling,
it doesn't ask for much,
only that you breathe, and that you smile.
Fulfill those two requests,
and it'll thank you
six ways to Sunday.
YOU ARE READING
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PoesíaA collection of tragedies of sorts, of demons or angels (whatever you'd fancy to call them) that lurk and/or gleam in my mind. Written when the moon's dreary and the sun's near awakening. Obnoxiously metaphoric, subtly inspirational. © Jake Sullivan...
