A Eulogy to Pretty Blades

Being
hurt.
or not.
being.

Each velvet red petal,
his fingers ran across—
cut him.
made him—
bleed
the exquisite experience each
pretty
blade
bore.

Intentional to hurt,
or maybe not—
sharp actions and
blunt
words were dealt
and intentionally,
or maybe not—
he hurt.

All reds were love
like golden honey
bees.
Their existence was—
beautiful
but their stings were creative
-ly—radical.

His pain was not
necessarily joy—
but necessary
to have his treasure.

Pricks were like
sunrays
piercing through the
blue
sky and under his right
eyelid into his
soul which showed through his
iris.

The pain is correlated
with the
beauty.

His hazel eyes could
see the culprit through the
fingerprints
on the pretty
blades.
Still,
he
bled.

Mimicking—or maybe—
mocking,
a rose thorn.
Remove and
die.
Do not

Remove.




*this is layed out a little differently on actual paper, but i can't figure out how to add spaces in blogger...

Real

Now I see the freckles in my eyes
reflect yours like ice particles
in the warm air, obstructing
your view of the transparent
rays that spark our life together,
and my body numbs

This winter will treat me like a page
from your handpicked vocabulary
burning in my fireplace,
warming my blood until
my heart beats so rapidly that it seems
to be still like the sun.

Our love for each other was real;
as real as the thick mass of
the ocean and the absence of the sky.

As we dance in heaven’s tears,
the painful sobs urge
the songbirds to sing louder,
that perhaps their melodies could reset
reality.



*this was an aubade I wrote for my creative writing class