Lips stained blue from the holy, splashed ichor,
& in your eyes lies something, an ember, a shine—
a wicked, sick rendition of the barest fire’s flicker.
She stands among fires & piles of ash, sicker
than her deceased, stomach like a brine,
lips stained blue from the holy, splashed ichor.
You laugh. She chokes on a sob. You sni—
& cough on acrid clouds of smoke; a foul wine,
a wicked, sick rendition of the barest fire’s flicker.
Skeletal fingers pull her up, your heart beats quicker.
Who placed her in a fountain? She drinks, lost in time,
lips stained blue from the holy, splashed ichor.
Cold seeps in, wit sharp, as if to finally trick her.
But you think, “No, she will always be mine.”
A wicked, sick rendition of the barest fire’s flicker,
burns & singes your hopes, so you turn to liquor.
She is a frozen smile, hot ice growing from her spine,
lips stained blue from the holy, splashed ichor:
a wicked, sick rendition of the barest fire’s flicker.
2024-01-01