I’m starting to remember your whisper thin love for the hands that moulded it.
How they shaped each little fault with buckets and buckets of pain that could easily sink as far down as the last line of bottom-feeder’s in the Mariana trench.
How they chiseled towards treason
for stripping the Queen of Hearts of her identity,
carving a moon-shaped jewel in it’s place.
How they loved, and loved, and loved, but it was never enough.
It was never enough so you drank red wine
to match the reddened lipstick you’ve always wanted to pull-off,
and you smeared your face in lies
that still remained after you tried to wash it all off by the end off the night.
You dug yourself an abyss where all the words you ever wrote
about mending your broken heart,
about mending someone else's broken heart,
fell into it.
You built yourself a fortress with your gifted hands, and watched yourself destroy it.
And here I sit, with those same hands on my lap,
thinking of who’s blood you finally decided to coat your heart in,
yours or mine.