This is what happens when I have too much coffee and don't feel like finishing my novel.

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 -

Will you use purple, when you paint my tears?

Actually, I was thinking of cream, or maybe a nice shade of eggplant. It can't be yellow, since I already used that to paint your fears. Maybe strawberry? Is that even a color - strawberry? Or is it just a fruit? I suppose I'll paint your hair first, a nice shade of chesnut, and see what goes with that. If chestnut is a color, strawberry should be a color, don't you think? Anyhow, I think cream will go well with the yellow of your fears.