when you hit
that note
my heart shattered

autumn leaves like
windchimes in the
biting winds

dark skies like
mornings held high
to high noon
to full moon

and those eyes
of dark skies and autumn leaves
of windchimes and mornings

i gasp for air
as the wind stops
and the trees fade

when you held that note
to high noon
to full moon

it was called
the Showstopper
and we went and it came
and we left and it went
every year

fairy lights like
fireflies frozen in cages
with your roar you stole
the souls of the young
your unspoken words
and (un)spilled blood

the rings of fire(flies)
bright in our eyes
blinding in yours
applause raining pitter patter
wind screaming quicker faster

and the smell of fire(flies)
and burning gold
is not new, not unfamiliar
not unfamiliar to the tattoos
you're so proud of

fairy lights like
you frozen in cages
and it came and went
and went and came
every
year

and you were the Stopper of the Shows.

stopped my heart
but you didn't stop walking

stopped your heart
then you stopped talking

don´t
splash the walls red
tell me to clean them
then blame me for the stained floors

i am already in your grasp
already suffocating within the metallic throes
the walls are red with my blood and yours
spill more, and drown

don´t
ask me why i am bleeding out
tell me to clean it

the cut on your face
was from your glass face
so fragile a word can break
so sharp a heart can break

don´t cry your diamond tears
sell them away
then blame them for buying themselves out

i am dead within your hands
don´t ask me to clean it up

when you throw your spears
they lodge themselves in the steel poles
and cry and shout and cry

but now you've shed your tears
there's no doors for you to close
don't shout don't knock don't die

like the scar after a rose

has taken you into its arms

like the glimmer after a star

has shone for you as it dives from the skies

like the echoes after a melody

has wrapped its slender fingers around your mind

like the breeze after a butterfly

dances for you, lives for you


the stains of beauty are but

strokes of the brush on long finished

canvases that breathe and sing,

not along hallways,

but immortalised in the scars

after a rose has taken you into its arms