rooftop (widowed november)

my winter gives away comfort as my body yields to his autumn-edged caress,
still sorrowful for the brutal epiphany tainted like blood on the summer dresses i was raped in
left with my wings and encased in widowed november
widowed november, when your wristbones showed no reverence to what i believe here on this rooftop
before his hands changed me into who i already thought i was
(with you)
before you spread this distress like a harlot's red wined lips passed off as bitemark bloodstains,
staining the white tile symbolizing the truth falling into the crevices between us
as i reached out against the swollen clouds and touched his breath inside the cigarette smoke
petrified that my fingertips would finally find a heart i could see
beating against his chest on those nights lit with waning fires
(though secretly, after he left my bed i lay alone on the floor with your picture,
hunting the truth in your face he gave so readily
but the poem of your pleas still don't reach my pain.)

i put your photographs back in the nightstand as your grace and charm douses itself in pretty anger
but boy, he is not afraid of the shadows you create and he caught the criminal in me with a smile
(as my heart beat finally under these transgressions)

i reach out against the clouds as you stain the white tile that symbolized our existence
your pale wristbones showing no reverence as my winter gives away to widowed november
widowed november,
my parting gift to your rooftop.

-fin. Inspired by Fiona Apple's "Tidal" album and my love life right now. Can you tell?