Dancing Doll

As the homes
of our mothers
breathed in and out,
the hearses
pulled up
to the driveway,
droning their dirges,
and we drank
the last bottle of
red wine,
sad smiles and
spilling a few drops
from our heavy mouths,
stains on the white carpet
which reminded us of blood
and you laughed at the thought,
quickly changing the subject.

I was your dancing doll,
my silhouette
etched into the wallpaper,
cum and cacophony,
your breath on my breast,
paint seeping into my pores
and stayed there,
for the night.

My mind loosing itself
amidst the grave digging.
I screeched out into the ethers
for help,
but found only
a moth to choke on
and a pair of scissors
to cut my hair with.

No comments:

Post a Comment