I can still taste the ash on my tongue,

From the last time you burnt me with your kiss.

You grew lovesome flowers within my lungs,

But they only make my heart feel more abyss.

And each cut left on my skin by your touch,

Bleeds out in the winter, staining the snow crimson.

As my quivering voice pleas to not be adjudged,

You edge your knife towards my throat with dominion.

And now as my eyes shed tears of blood,

You smile from a distance and say, “Agony is real beauty”.

But your actions state that I’m still not loved...

Even when all I’m made of is fragmented pieces of misery.