My first kiss was not a fairytale...

It was neither soft nor gentle,
no candelight, nor whispered promises-
just burning rage,
and violence in chains, now broken.

It did not come bearing roses,
nor with a heart filled.
My first kiss was not for love,
It was neither warm nor sweet.

Instead...

It tasted like iron,
a taste of broken pride.
Dripping with embering red,
not from lips,
But from a place where scars cannot hide.

It taught me nothing of love-
only the language of cruelty.
And yet,
Some part of me still remembers it
as something intimate.
Something real.

Not every kiss leaves you wanting more.
Some just leave a scar.

I sit in my chair, as I often do,
staring through melted sand
into an ocean of darkness,
where illusory stars shimmer, never quite real.

Here, time almost stands still—almost.
The clock ticks, and 3:07 becomes 3:08.
For each minute passing by, more phantom stars ignite.
Until the true light finds its breath,
and shepherds us into yet another day.

And while the false stars continue to burn.
I shall continue to sit in my chair, as I often do.
Until the sky is ready to tell the truth
Until even lies fade away.

And then at last, the morning returns to keep the lies at bay.