battlecry.

Ne Me Quitte Pas, Mon Cher

La probleme s’engrosse a chaque jour que vous m’embrassez, vous me complimentez, a chaque jour que tu ne retournes pas les emotions j’essaie desperament a evider. Les actions prennent place, mais la passion y manques. Mais non, n’est-ce pas la passion necessaire pour les actions? Au moins, c’est necessaire pour la facon dans laquelle vous exprimez les actions. Je veut terriblement que vous ne retournerai jamais ses emotions, a cause qu’ils seraient comme le sucre a ma langue.

vous etes ma sucre.

you are my sweetest downfall.

dance me through the panic 'til i'm gathered safely in.

i totalled your car. sorry. but you should have warned me. ‘i greased the wheel so you’d have trouble steering. how could you not have guessed that might have been a problem?’

gee, thanks. now you’re bitching at me for wrecking the paint job. it may look rustic and experienced now, but you’re still never letting me use it again. it’s not the way you like it anymore, but you know you’ll still try to make it your own, personalize it’s flaws to your own modern liking.

well maybe i just don’t like you.

villanelle

from across the room she saw a man

such a figure so tall and lean

inviting her close, an outstretched hand

a smirk, like he had some sort of plan

so perfectly sly and keen

from across the room she saw a man

perfect lips and a perfect tan

and eyes the most enticing shade of green

inviting her close, an outstretched hand

as rugged as eastern waters’ sand

yet kind and gentle, so it seemed

from across the room she saw a man

the owner of vast amounts of land

so rich and powerful, yet so very mean

inviting her close, an outstretched hand

“hello,” he said, ” my name is dan.”

“and mine” she said, ” is christine.”

from across the room she saw a man

inviting her close, an outstretched hand

there's something about surrender that a foolish heart can trust.

i trust in wicked whispers of faith. scapegoats of fantasies seeping into reality, shapeshifting into love. blood-stained band shirts and tear-stained tactics like breadcrumbs mark the naive path back down the ladder. swollen cheeks of sour plays dripping, crawling, teasing from worn, or rather, experienced lips. lips of emerald gold, unbreakable, undeniably honorable, worthy of praise. worthy or criticism.

when milady dreams, i dream of thinking. thinking this is right. i am wrong. she is wrong. but this, weakness in valor, strength in honesty, youth of the heart, this is right.

dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn.

there is glass on the floor, and i can’t forgive myself. sheets strewn over carpeting and windowsills. shirts and shoes swinging from ceiling fans, hanging from the furniture. still not worth the mess. blank words, terrified family; such a waste of taxi fare. i cannot account for this. i regret it, but i am not the one wishing i could go back. the sun streaming through trees surrounding his home aren’t shining on my face. it was not my ripped jeans and tee drenched in the scent of his sunday-morning yawns, the aroma of a happy life. cold blankets made of shaving cream and haircuts, little sisters and chores, and worst of all, black dress pants and that horrifying smile of his. wicked. addicting. cherished. a waste.