hot mess

a hung-over sunshine peeked through the skylight
while her clothes laid on the floor
along with the burnt-out paper lanterns
from yesterday's rhapsody

she was your midsummer night's dream
that tasted like apple vodka, a lollipop lolita
with a splash of gummi worm mascara,
sour cherry lips and an angel's
blood on her fingertips

her choker of vintage bruises, custom-made by
her grandfather's bonfire hands, wrapped around her neck
like a cadena de amor strangling the afternoon sun
and sadistically choking daylight with its vines
as thunder exploded with a bang
and shook the earth, signifying a
warning from God himself

the both of you used to hang out on the rooftop
whenever it rained at night, illuminated the sky
with cherry bombs and watched them burn
with the nikolaschka-soaked stars

you took a small sip of hangman's blood
and she gulped down a bloody mary
while capriciously pulling the philip morris
from your mouth, inhaled profoundly
and gave the cigarette back to you,
drowning herself in your papercut lullaby
softly murmuring in the sudden downpour

finger-painting dementia preacox poetry
on the walls of the motel room with tears,
all that remained of her reveries were
vestiges of nostalgia that slipped
from a zip-line of repercussions

she vomited your name on the pages of
scented stationery, hoping to immortalize your
memory between black and white citations
of days gone by because there were times
when she felt like a distressed star
that lost its grip from the sky
and a caterpillar that died
before turning into a butterfly

a hot mess in cigarette high rise jeans,
she murmured wishes on faded neon star
stickers that were still glued on the ceiling
and sang love songs just to
break her own heart

.
.
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