Cold Mistress

Playful sprites throw their arms against the wind.
Dance you merry few. Lift your legs and flap the fabric
That loosely clings from your hips. Worry not about sin.
Worry not about others, nor the anguish they intend to inflict.

We all work; we all bleed. From salted wounds
and bruised knees. To scrub away the marks we made.
The regrets, we distract with plastic flowers, never to bloom.
Hide your face, lest your seen. Nothing compares to that, which shines false.

Seek sinister comforts. A sharp knife offers salvation,
yet I lack the strength to grip the hilt. Her cuts slice,

Peel, and drag smoothly through a weakened mend.
The nimbleness of my fingers wilt by the second.

Nothing compares to the warm kiss of sleep.
That marks upon the wretched and beautiful all the same.
Nothing is brighter than the thin red streak.
To stop is to get better, but better will never come.

How sweet this numbing existence began,
Fading fast with every sip of rum.