The winds of July swing
Your hair from
Side
       To
            Side.
Your age shows now.
It's in your color.
Brown fields that mascarade
As mothers spaghetti,
Only yours though.

The sounds of the month are
Those of busy people.
I see industrialism on the
Brown fields.
Busy body beauties, black in nature,
And because of it;

Work, work, work.

They too know the worth of a dollar.

Now tell me;
Whisper it softly into my skin.
Bite my lip and say its love.
Your rubber-like tongue
Seeps from mouth to lust.
Is this love?
Is that word more than the world
Can contain on this
Blurry night?
Those lies
Seep into my skin, like an
Infection.
Carres your skin onto mine;
Call it the love of the month.
Hang it for all to see.

Those pearls on your neck are
The eyes of angels.
Pasty white, with a pastier background;
I swear I were looking into the
Eyes of God.
Your milky skin, asking to be
Tasted on this January night.
I swear this is what dying is for.
To know that this was all real.

To know that you were real.

The muddy dirt I walk on
Are the lies I've told.
*****, unashamed of the
Suicides in my head.
It's all been said.
All the moons are full tonight,
White with innocence.

The rain washes nothing away,
Only the surface lies.
They died there in that July night.
The night of my first suicide.

Enter date here.

The leaves on those trees are self
Sufficient, unlike most men.
The sons of God, the ******* of a
Society unwilling the see the
Lies I've,
we've told.
Say no more.
This is the death foretold.
The tree of death is here for you,
Unwilling to leave without your flesh.
This is the truest truth.

A death foretold.
A suicide, unashamed.

The death, in living, is here
For me,
For you,
For them,
For the *******.

The muddy dirt
That I walk on,
Paced only by the beat of the heart
I left on the moon all those years ago.

One pump.
Then another.
One more for show.
There's a joke in that.

She's the one with bliss
Parading all over her
Skin. The march of love.

A square peg in a rusty, circled hole:
That's my tongue sliding down your throat.
Those wishful words are stuck,
Hoping, like you,
To not go unseen,
Even though you do.
Those words are daggers, behaving
As though they aren't mine.
I speak with knives;
I meant for them to be
Feathers.
Those doves were sacrificed, back in June,
For no honest reason.
I speak with charcoal ash,
Black as those knives I spit
At you.
Those apologies are weapons I use
To **** it.

It slips out of me.
This love of mine.
This black love.
I'm through.

The universe knows
about you; it will soon lay
lilacs on your scars.