when the hell did i start writing poetry?
one.
i've been down that road before
as i have with several more
and yet no lips as sweet as yours
in deep afternoons as these
none as soft, nor as pure
though opposite to lips are those
in serpent's tongue with lie's deceit
and in duress i mourn for you
who i did believe you once were
two.
it's the dizzying air that suffocates you, sends you running from those you love
the monsters you fear, they're gnawing at your fingers
flesh from bone, bone from flesh. eyes agape and screams fresh.
so succulent the tormenting sounds to your ears
float across waves over air. and how shrill.
it's a skin unlike yours that grows over your mouth
and your nose until all that is left are your eyes
now you're left to see what's eating you alive.