Artificial idolatry—
In your kiss I found everything and nothing.
Perhaps the texture of my tastebuds have differed,
Jilted,
coarse and jagged under the bitter serration of your rose hued hypocrisy,
yet I heed no warnings of your tragicomic, burnt-honey lips.
I remain subdued— suspended in the sombre sequence of immutable limbo as your acidic affections rot the remnants of my concave heart.
You are but a rabid pesticide,
the epitome of emotional erosion that has abandoned my throat sour with the abraded scrape of thorns and weeds, adduced within my shallow breath.
I now realise that you are but a hollow, graveyard of a girl, impaired organs atrophied within a withered, skeletal anatomy, my lavender lips rendering impotent to allow love to bloom.
For after all, is it not lavender that you are allergic to?
YOU ARE READING
spacejunk
Poetry'A lucid trip through the cosmos and constellations' ✦ · . ✷ ✦ ✦ · . ✷ ✷ ...
