thenaturalprince

The light from the silver box Eats away at my retinas and burns my hair. I cannot Erase the paper memories and ways you Rejected me at midnight, inexplicably hating My dripping adjectives and bitten fingers. There is no room in my Hell for the ones who Left in needful times, but devils haunt you in my Dreams for your wordless absence. The figments who Depended upon our joining now lie, limbs and mouths stitched, In the desiccated basement of my attic, longing for the machete to Split the threads that hold them. Surely your figments cry, feet and hands Staple-gunned to the metal, for their return to the road of force-fed angst and

There was only red. It began by creeping in around his eyes, a circular blindfold. It was acidic, burning through his chest, his arms, his legs, his brain, heaving through his vocal cords and commanding his arms. He watched the black and blue go limp through the curtain of crimson. He bowed down to the red. There was only red. It began by lazily dripping down over his eyes. He could taste it on his lips, on his tongue, salty and warm in his stomach, as he coughed it up and as he swallowed it down. He watched the flesh-colored blur through the curtain of crimson. He gave himself up to the red.