Red lips that are not so red.
You smile
with mock sincerity etched upon your face.
You’re laughing at me.
I’d hear whispers late at night, of how
you rip peoples’ hearts out
and leave them to fester in the open air,
blood spilling out,
dying red to black,
sticking, causing a permanent wound,
just like the one you left on me.
Red lips that are not so red.
You pout,
creating the unfair urge to protect, yet
you’re cutting into me.
I’d watch you paint, never sleeping,
creating false visions
and twisted pictures of reality,
paint smeared across the canvas,
staining white with red,
mixing a permanent brand,
just like the one you left on me.
Red lips that are not so red.
You frown
with distain marked upon your brow.
You’re looking down on me.
I’d listen to you criticize and mock
my every move and reaction to you,
launching a frontal attack with words,
piercing deep within my cells,
clouding back a layer of rage,
just like the one you left on me.
Red lips that are not so red.
You laugh,
knowing my limitations and boundaries.
You’re playing with me.
I’d hear your voice with taunting tones,
drawing me in circles,
wearing me down because you know
I can’t resist you,
dark red on skin, you lips on mine,
a branding of ownership by lipstick,
just like the one you left on…
him.
Red lips that are not so red,
sealed tightly against what
I want to hear.
