At the Edges

Your lips stained with wine
Like an apparition
Molding the minds of the listless
With putrid intentions
Spewing from a scorching vermilion mouth
And pale, dead skin does decorate
Like the bloodless do
In the cold, hard ground
With eyes that shimmer and writhe
Like a horde of ants
That make my heart seize
And my blood curdle
Where delicate papery skin peels
The wrinkles back
To reveal your jade teeth
And sour, drunken breath
So must your hot wax hands leave their mark
Down my shoulders
Melting
And bubbling
And burning
Until I can no longer stand the touch of you
And your liquor soaked discussion
Determined by the lawless
And lack of divinity
You choose to see in me.

- zelda

What it is to Be Pure

The candor to which you cling so desperately is most noticeable in those perfect, indefinable moments. It drips down your face, off of your jaw and onto your chest. Soaked into your flesh, it is both what keeps you alive and makes you want to die.
Your eyes so deep and unrelenting in their quest for purpose. Your hair drenched in human weakness. Your face contorted with lust and the immaculate contempt of your consciousness. Your body entwined with mine, desperate for animosity and compassion.
In those perfect, indefinable moments, I look at you and see a masterpiece of both benevolence and hostility alike.
In those perfect, indefinable moments, I sometimes wish I could tell you that your sincerity frightens me.

- zelda