Wounds.

all that is left behind
is the faint trail of the song
that you played last night
to create a mood
that would make you feel good
about the scars that you painted
on the hands that held you so close.

you, screaming like a mad man
while she
shrieked her lungs out
and tore apart
the white sheets
stained red.

Ella Fitzgelard does to you
what fuel does to fire
and you transform
into something savage
but oh! so beautiful
and out of control.

you, who wants her to
say your name
with her bleeding lips
which you nibbled at, carelessly
while you devoured
her face
to satiate that undying passion
that overwhelms you.

and all that is left behind
is the smell of your
stale skin
and sweat
mixed with the fragrance of
burnt out incense sticks,
and me.

_________________________________

possibly the strongest thing that I have ever written
and i don't even know why i did so.