The pleiades wail sonnets of you , waves crashing against blood soaked cliffs . There should be a metaphor here, something that screams sunlight streaming in the windowpanes of youth, and cherry blossoms bursting from young lovers chests / anything but this . Blood on the floor and the wails are ripping out of me , bird carcasses hitting the ground outside because even they couldn’t find salvation . You at least could’ve had the mercy to pull the trigger, instead you let my heart rot, cherry syrup costing my silver tongue , but all I taste is iron , and it’s starting to remind me of the end, though all the signs point back , all broken and twisted . I don’t know if I should be relieved , the paths laid bare but all I see is the cliffs, and the ocean , starving / ready to devour. Luna. 2021
