Your first words were whispers
In the dew that morn had spit
Past the decay of this old skin,
Kind to keep my pupils dilated.
Reading around my frail words,
They can't stand upright alone
Against the blistering pale light
Of your sanctimonious silence.
Yet I've never once asked for it,
The bittersweet ghosting of -
Slender fingers along my spine.
You were my masquerading sin.
Instead, my distinction between
Right and wrong burns scarlet,
Stark full lips, a made-up visage
Refusing to turn the other cheek.
Nothing has scorched a heart
Like the undressed ire in those
Onyx pressed irises, you were -
You are a devil with pretty eyes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.