our love was an orchestra that
played in my lungs,
you were the conductor
and you made it felt like the
smoothest flowing
symphony.

divinity and pureness was soon rid of
and the violin strings
sprung and snapped my
throbbing heart strings.

you played me wrong.
you dropped your arms,
stopped conducting the music and
left me.
silent and aching for more melody.

you ended our song.
it was abrupt and you dropped
my instruments and
scratched my brass eyes
with salty tears.

im an empty theatre without you.
noiseless and open to silence.

i get down on my shins to pray for hope
to talk to almighty
god.

the reply is slow and the
air is
blank.

i hear a whisper of cackling
of laughing.

the devil replied first to
my prayers
and now i have a
knife in my grip held
at my reflection in
the mirror.

Throbbing throat from my strangling sobs,
Agony riddles my tingling lips with shades of
blood reds and vibrant scarlets.
All is split to expose the gorgeous hues of  
his love.
Coating my lips in glossy red dew drops while it’s  
dragged across my face like the sunset.
Dripping down my pulsing neck covered with azure bruises.

“You’re so beautiful my darling” his mouth speaks,
but his fist speaks a different language.
It expresses a devoted strike to my eyes to
gift me with its
love.  

Blurry vision greets me while something damaged is  
gazing at me from the shattered glass mirror,
Broken,
Crushed pieces of valuable innocence stares back to  
send me a message which I cannot decode.

My face is blended with stunning arrays of his makeup.
Water colour blues line my tear ducts,
Deep purples create bottomless lakes around my sockets while
rivers spill from my hollow glassy eyes.
Brown and buttery diluted stains dapple my cheeks,
Tender to his touch,
All this while hots streams melt down my face from the  
gloomy lakes.  

Mascara and foundation conceal dull marks.
I only wear his work of art behind closed doors,
For just his eyes to  
linger upon endlessly.  
He tells me I’m elegant with my mouth  
held shut,
Hands burned by rope behind my back.
I am still beautiful, but why does it  
have to hurt?

He calls me beautiful when I waltz around,
Stripping off my dignity at his request,
Leaving piles of my little self-respect on his floor.
If I were to disobey his command again,
The love in his hands will wrangle my small  
neck to breathlessness.
So I am stuck.
Stuck being beautiful  
while being  
in  
pain.