I'm overflowing with crimson
blood shot eyes and hollow tear drops that seep through my cracked skin.
I never thought I would become this.
I grasp on tighter to my tattered bed sheets that hide each broken night and red stained cry between the pure white fabric that I've left you buried under.
But each crackling smile is another word gone unspoken,
screaming for an appendage of your devotion.
Maybe I am the sinner,
maybe these are my doings.
I suppose forging love isn't authentic,
isn't beautiful or romantic,
only a tragic affinity of anticipation.
