You're cocained white paint
that powders my walls.
I want to handle you,
but my hands would tar you,
smear blemish on you,
ruin my perfect ivory beaut.
So I lay prostrate in lieu,
a cornea's distance from you
with my eyelids buckled down,
vigilantly not peeking through.
And I imagine your snow flake view
and pretend that two can bask in your hue
and that I could plaster my bare walls, too.
I levitate closer,
clearly unworthy of you:
burned, blackened, bludgeoned
but only I know
only I would ever know by whom.
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.19 seconds at 7:59pm on Sep 07, 2024 via server web1.