It's not the nauseating smell of ****,
That I wish to forget,
Or of perfume-drenched pillows,
Covering the fear that lingers in my eyes,
That fogged my head and whirled my stomach about.
Just like an ink stain that won't wash away,
Potent shade sloppily spreads across my hands,
Dying my furrowed brows in grey,
and mixing my Nights into Days.