Untitled III

Wasted words wet tongue, crash against the inner folds of lips;

the dark crevices succumbing to the twisted sweet taste of neglect and past mistakes

tumbling in my mind like a dancer falling from Heavenly Grace.

Did it hurt on your fall from the sky, asked with a smile.
 

The tip of a blade scratching into the flesh,

staining, bleeding, black.

Flying fallen into your post bin of rubbish.

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