Delusions of Inferno

 Your lips, burning with

Whiskey fire

Like a brand on my neck

Sweet and searing

My little darlin'

You know not what

You do to me

So close your glittering

Eyes, drunk and sighing

You should sleep away

This memory 

As I should slip, awake, 

Into it's dissolution.

Dollhouse

 I fall asleep again
Under cold winter breaths
In your ex girlfriend's bed
I can hear the interstate
A quiet silver shrill
Echoing like choral bells
I am a traitor
And I prohibit you
To see me as glitter
Or the blink of Christmas lights
If I become something to you
I would rather die
Than face your rejection
Shame coursing my veins
You are neither knife nor fist
Something deeper like
Surgical stitches
To give and to take away
Blood and life and
I want to remain
Dollhouse playmates
Until my brain rots and
Red fades to white and
Bones can recite
Our poetry. 

[Prose] Fog Light

 The rain. The fog. Londonish. 

It's only nice if you have someone to snuggle with, someone to hold, someone to love, and it's somewhat nice if you have a book and a big cup of homemade cocoa and marshmallows. And it is perfect if I have nothing but my bare skin on the pavement, the rain covering me in cold, the chill seeping into my bones. It will possess me until I am nothing but icy lashes and grayish skies, no spirit on the line, no blood to spill over your black trench coat. 

You'll be a yellow light in the mist, washing over my form, bathing me in artificial warmth. A paisley shirt. Summer scents of grass and dirt. The tar stuck to my socks that never really stopped smelling of moth balls. And listerine smells like that. So if I washed my mouth out, it would fill back up with you.