Lust, Anger

Anger courses through my veins like a cordial.

I would rather get drunk on love or sex,
though anger is a component of those -
at least, the Marquis de Sade tells me so.

I read the Marquis de Sade, drunkenly, on the floor -
your lips were crawling into my earbuds like lizards,
and your hand was picking my vines:

I was a stalk, falling off of a stone castle,
like in those Disney cartoons,
where the princesses braid their hair
and forget to be afraid.

But I have not forgotten:

I weave you through my tresses,
feel your lips in my fingers,
knee-caps bended on a bed of down,
curled over poetry books like rotten petals.

You used to love flowers - I could count our nights
in the wilted leaves on my pillow -
whiteness I write with the ink of my eyes.

What color would you paint in, if you could paint my tears?


I wonder if it would be the same color in which I paint your fears.