my purple molted fingers
are just slightly around your neck,
wanting - begging - to bruise
the air underneath your face
in your crimson eyes,
filled with all that messed up
blue,
the words are stuck
breath - filled with what nots,
slowly enters the clear -
orange for me to hate,
to choke near a window
how so very like me -
just as the tables in the room,
covered in deep, false scars
to masturbate at just the thought -
of -
chickens
(they never leave the ground - thrown)
let me see your bruises,
come on now -
do you even have any?
there's an orange flavored mist,
lost around orchid petals
because its eyes are stitched shut
with a thick, gold thread.
only something expensive to make it bleed.
Only something Pretty to Make me Bleed.