The blood that stains the carpet is rare, it reeks of anger and desperation. The blood that stains the carpet is rare, and sweet as cherry wine.
You can’t tell whether the stain on the bedsheets is the sweet crimson of wine, or the metallic carmine of fresh blood. (You can tell when it dries, it’s blood of course.)
Their hand you flinch from, you can no longer tell if it’s love or hate. They are the deity you worship in the dark, somewhere secret, so no one can see what your devotion is doing to you.
They are the divine and the damned and you would walk to hell and back to keep them at your side. Divine wrath is always well deserved, right?
You can’t think of air without thinking of them. It all seems deserved in the end. The sting of their words are like the sting of the cold nights when fall is dripping into winter. Comforting, yet somehow it hurts.
Their love is a crime, you need it all the same. It burns, it burns like the vodka and tears that flow as freely as air. It seems as if the divine have come to Earth and you wonder if you are one of them. (You are not divine, you’ve never been divine.) They are holy. (You’re not holy, you’ve never been holy.)
Their love is salvation, or so it seems. The air is metallic with the weight of their abuse.
Their love is gone, and sometimes you think it was never there.