Do I still write poetry? Apparently. This literally popped into my head without warning, and you all know (or don't know) how I can't resist posting everything I write, so... here. Enjoy?

You're nothing but
a cheap lipstick stain
on my cheek, my chest, my thighs,
a pungent waft of cotton candy perfume
tangled in my hair,
sweet, stinging lines of severed skin
crawling down my back,
a deep purple blossom of pain
staining my arms,
a ragged breath of sharp air
ripping into my lungs.

You're nothing but
an open window above a
still-rattling fire escape
when she walks in,

but you're everything
when she walks out.