the devil himself said he tastes like poisonous antidotes and a delusional anecdote for he once lived there himself. he paints art, he shatters skies, he destroys love. he isn't music like the symphony feeling of him when his photosynthetic eyes brew potions of notes too high to reach. with arduous intent, he leaves beautiful lines of deceit on the floors of his heart for every turn is a little white lie to stick to your toes in brandished memory. it is blurry red that slips from his lips, plump and false, telling her that the blood being shed is a mere formality undressing her conscience. bad people are everything she cannot fathom when he is front and forward like the representative of sin itself. she has died twice in him; buried an eons' worth of secrets to maddening degrees, enough to last seas of fables gone wrong, equated with tragedy. she has no more to give.
the sky has died again. but it's his death on her tongue, not the devil's proclamation of sky-high graveyards coating her lips.
