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  Feb 2016 Anniebell Lector
Creation gently whispers 'this is love'
and sometimes to break in on your deafness
creation 'shouts loud' loud enough for you to hear it.
he kissed her eyelids
soft like pale butterfly wings
and she woke up
with a cold space beside her
the memory of those butterfly kisses
still fresh on her face.
Anniebell Lector Mar 2015
And maybe I loved you.
Maybe I didn't.
Who cares by this point?
While you're screaming at me,
while I'm curled in the corner,
not sure if your's or the voices in my head are
louder this time.
Maybe I didn't want you to touch me,
while I laid so still,
my tears carving deeper scars than my razor.
Maybe, I did.
Who cared by the time
I woke up with you ******* her,
in my bed,
next to me.
Maybe I didn't want to get you high,
when I worked sixteen hours a day,
smiling lies, and cracking when their eyes were averted.
Maybe, I did,
but who really cares,
by the time I found you,
finger ******* the carpet
for little crystal rocket ships,
that would put you back in your head.
Maybe I didn't want to stay,
when you begged me.
Secrets, brushed under the carpet for a minute,
love facades painted in your black hole eyes.
Maybe I did,
but, who really ******* cares,
by the time I finally got away,
because, I had to face the inside
of the Jack O' Lantern smile, you'd sliced onto my eager face.
but who cares?
You didn't.
  Mar 2015 Anniebell Lector
Let's make a deal
that the smoke scented
taste of your tongue
will never leave mine.
Anniebell Lector Mar 2015
She glares, in contempt of her cage.
She bites the bars.
She screams her rage.
Her sun thirsty skin stretched over a soul
too big,
too bound,
too much for this tiny cathedral.
The ceilings of her Sistine Chapel rebel against
her plaster skull.

They waltz in her spotlight,
fighting over her camera's eyes.
look at me
They flick their tongues,
bat their painted lashes.
They flash their brilliant colors,
their brilliant intellect.
Prey lying in the arms of predator,
they sacrifice sanity for the ecstasy of her madness,
just a taste of her sacred communion.

She drifts,
one to the next, because they're all the same.
They make promises they can't keep
for the sake of romance.
They marvel wide eyed, because she's not the same.
Absorb her until they can't,
and hobble away, broken.

They won't stop though.
Cracked like a whip on their tender skin,
they come back,
limping and smiling.
Her weakness in the devotion playing on their
bitten, pouting lips.

"Love me." said The *******
                                                                          **"Always." said The Sadist"
They'll find me hanging upside-down.
Ankles bruised by the ropes
From which you strung me up for field dressing.
Lacerations where you’d cut my throat,
Bled me dry, spilt my guts,
And broke past my ribs, to uproot my heart.
Can they carbon date the remains of my reputation?
Trace the ****** back to your mouth?

Will they know the cause of death to be the
Malignant rumors you couldn’t help but spew?
Your false words: the final nail in my coffin.
Do you regret ever letting them past your lips?
Slowly, my reputation crippled by the aggressive
Cancer that was your embellished utterance.

And it didn’t bother you in the slightest.
You marveled at the sight of my struggle.
And amazing how these things seem to spread.
One caustic, contagious, breath from you was all it took.
Though the slanderous virus wouldn't make it 'til morning;
Addicts to their fix; gossips, crave your empty words.
Like *******, the rush is intense but brief.
Interest fleeting, they move on.
Off to the next peddler.

For all these inconveniences, I thank you.
Thank you for lifting the masks that curtained your distorted self.
How blind I must have been not to see it outright.
Another leech, feeding on slighted words.
And to think; all it costed you to buy in
Was me...
  Mar 2015 Anniebell Lector
I drew from your lips
a kiss
like a gun from the hip.
and we bled such mysterious blood.
Your body arched into a conduit
of divine magnetism.

And when I saw you,
my darling one,
maybe it was too holy for these eyes
and these hands, and this
crooked tongue.

I think
I was real gone then.
A phantom, something vague,
something obscured
by the wonder of many moments
deftly strung together by
the thin silk of enthrallment.

Or, maybe worse, concealed
by the magic show of happiness.

You were not the first angel I’d seen.
And this is not the final glass I’ll
raise in remembrance.
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