You're a kaleidoscope of color in my eyes.
Much like a rainbow palette toned into the dull hues of a storm,
You drain the world.
You bleed through light until the page is sodden and weeping.
something that swells against your very soul is a toxin.
Nothing neon. Nothing pastel. Nothing lightening the woe.
You're a network of red wine, pouring through my very veins,
intoxicating me with a callous kiss.
Such is enough to render me comatose:
when the darkness breaks, all that is left is callous cowardice.
You bled through the pages with your flames;
You intertwined me on a high of vileness through the prick of my skin against a spindle.
Your words were poison to the network of thoughts.
You ripped my wings from my body.
All that is left is red.
Now, in the agony of naivety,
of idiotic obstinacy,
my youth is a dull kaleidoscope of rainy hues,
seeping through the ivy of hope.
I'm a writer.