The hickey bleeds
blue
The truth;
He is not ready to swallow
shattered things

He lingers
like smoke from dead candle lights
Asks me;
will you build a fire
in my icicle eyes

Screams out his youth
into a soft, pearl white duvet
or the veil I wish to be buried
inside
the one his mother made

For the other bride

Caves are meant to be explored,
but no one
wants
to
call them
home

And if ever,
a little heart rattles
inside that soft bird-caged
chest of yours

You will snap her neck

for pretty birds are not meant to fly-
let them sing
watch them die

upon corpses of
satisfied men

Tell me:
Will I ever bleed
pretty
again