she had lips of lush
cheeks rosy with flush,
her wild dreams
i tore at the seams

to paint my skin blue and velvet
was always his deepest covet

her cries are more music
than her laughter
her tears taste sweeter
than her lips

he prefers my flesh tormented with all hues of mauve and indigo

it reminds me of an impressionistic oil painting by Monet,
each brush stroke brutally slapped onto her canvas skin

i know he loves me
with each inhale of his smoke charred lungs
and every pulse of boiled liquor in his bloodstream

it isn't i who pains her,
it is another man
with the same handprints as i

pain is more affectionate than kisses

the rivers run ruby red
like the blood in my arteries
and the ichor in Hade's veins,
what is it that runs through his system?
is it blood the colour of his wine
or is it ichor, the colour of his liquor?
the colour of his glory and gore?

each tear drop of hers is a violent delight,
and each cry for help is a lustful fight

each cigarette he torches me with
feels like falling in love
     all
           over
                     again

and every night i'm alive
i lay in his lethal night sheets
i pick my last words,
like how i would pick petals off a flower,
   over
             and
                      over
                                again