Blayre

Her cancerous fingers, Stained by her congealed heart’s adhesive blood, Cultivate tumours within glass jars. She places pins delicately through the wings, of lovers fated to fly. And envisions doves, entombed within chimney towers, and dubs her actions; righteous. She watches my reflection, upon the blade of her scalpel, and leisurely; begins to sever me from my heart. She places her ear to my chest, and hears the cavernous echo’s of chambered secrets, and corrosive memories. Content. She returns me to her collection, To dwell in the dusty cupboard. She calls her past. My first and only personal piece for this forum. I can't bring myself to write more, lest i sieze up and have to hold back the gag reflex..