I'm supposed to run
When you harvest red roses
With scissors
But their blood was mine.
Only war paint conceals
The faded spots your lips
Have left on my smile.
You will comprehend your sickness
When I desperately moisten
My flaking fingers with the spoils
Of your wounds.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
I'm supposed to run
When you harvest red roses
With scissors
But their blood was mine.
Only war paint conceals
The faded spots your lips
Have left on my smile.
You will comprehend your sickness
When I desperately moisten
My flaking fingers with the spoils
Of your wounds.
