Playing With Fire










Crimson lullabies, blood red wine in beer bottles, 
it's like whenever we go out , there's a calm flicker about him, 
a quiet eruption that can only be deciphered by my ears.

he likes to put his hands all over me; 
my waist is like his wallet, he only grabs for temporary riches, 
he likes to put his hands all over me; 
my face is like his boxing bag; he only ever strikes repeatedly for practice;
rehearsal without a performance for the world.

Whenever we go out, it's like a swirl of different colors 
mixed perfectly to produce the shade of black.

Belts fly off of his tongue and wrap around my neck like makeshift nooses,
and plastic surgery smiles for our audience,  
our show is a bloody crucifixion 
but only I can see the thorns.

Whenever we go out, I see his eyes turn to fire and silence at the same exact time,
but I can't say that he hurts me.

Because somewhere in the universe of the blind, 
he doesn't have the capability to do so,
And whenever we go out,
the audience is just that, 
blind.

1 comment:

  1. This piece is beautiful - both the photographs and the poetry alike

    ReplyDelete

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