To your screams, it's
the loud music blasting
so depressing yet pretty...
and that little throat runs dry.
This knife- it cuts
your pale and smooth face-
the lips that I've kissed once
and I bit into the lower lips,
scattering red rose petals down
your neck in which hands
that held your cold fingers into the warmth
strangled and kissed
in the ice blooded veins
and the cruelty of mine that runs inside.