DEAD

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Your tongue
seeks revenge in my mouth
for what my hands have done
to your back,
when it was held straight
and mine was arched
for you.
My murmur
got stopped
by your pressure on my wrists
as I wiggled my way
under your
sheets,
when you wanted it to be
your life
instead.

(It was in a way though, no?)

You say your heart is weak,
because cracks of the past
can’t stop
those red-coloured liquids
escaping,
and in response
I just give you
my weak knees,
that are failing my body
on your bedroom floor,
and all the colour
is being drained
from my fingers,
that are now turning blue
as you kiss my
not-so-red-anymore
lips.

The end was not
what you expected.

– Chatty Owl –