Lust. Anger - playing around with the ending

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,
knees 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 lillies on my pillow,
a lace of purple petals - is it purple, the color of my tears,
or will you use a shade of cream, or maybe yellow?

I will use the same color in which I paint your fears.