Normally red, flame like. Petals caress, and wither,
And fall. The dizzying peace in the slumber it brings,
The drug that sings an Angel's lullaby, tosses you into the toy box like another rag-doll.
We've fallen for it again. The dusty dolls and
Hollow plastic telephones that hold spider eggs are the only companions now.
But I am here. And I am your friend.
Although I can not make any promises that I am beautiful, I will be as pretty as I can;
I will wear dresses and makeup.
My scars are not covered, they show and glow like luminescent tattoos etched into my skin.
Do you have any ink? Did your feather pen spill over the page, erasing your work?
Did the charcoal reflection ******* over and stain your perfect self?
Of course it did. That is what happens when the desk you write on is slanted, demented,
But it seems to be your twin.
Your mind is not a place of blazing meteors, honey. It's a place of evil things.
You are a twisted little *****, but so am I, you see. We have both taken the wrong path,
The only difference: I know how to survive. How to fool the monsters under the bed into thinking
I am one of them. In a way, I might even be telling the truth. I painted my own mask:
A splash of black here, a drop of blood there, and... Something is missing, but they won't notice.
They will always let me dance with them around their moonlit blue flames; I am their queen,
My mask, to them is beautiful. And they understand the me that I have fabricated to escape
The wretched toy box on the other side of the bedroom, over the mountains of ***** socks and
Dusty snow globes, even if a part of me is not complete.
I am still stuck in that box long after the room rotted away, the box melted in the
Sunlight and every speck of dust swept away by the wind and rain.
But at least more of the black poppies can grow.
Normally red, flame like. Petals caress, and wither,
And fall. The dizzying peace in the slumber it brings, leaving everyone who slips the glass pill
Comatose in a hospital bed, tubes shoved down their throat to keep from asphyxiating.
No matter how many visitors come to read stories and play songs on the ukulele,
They will remain dormant. They are not longer home, so stop ringing the bell.
No, I take that back.
Ring the death bell one more time, invite everyone to the land of green grass and marble sculptures;
Tell them to bring poppies because it was the deceased's favorite flora,
But neglect to say which color. The visitors bring red,
An alien on the color spectrum and unrecognized by the ghost atop the gravestone.
Still, the dull color matches the spatter of blood on the mask I once wore, and I am brought back
A hologram, of sorts. The bowed heads below me are too dense to look up, except for one.
It's you, love. You grew the flowers that put me there.
The dull color that hypnotized me night after night and made me dream of your body
Covered in the withered petals. You, love. My poppy dealer.