Dead Weather and Frills



Sweet lips kiss the edges of her frayed mouth
Like silk scraping against sandpaper
Itching the flesh of skin
Jagged fringes shred

Worn and cold
Chiselled like her hollow cheekbones
Dilapidated, the bottle cleanses
By the window seat, the flowers bleed

Cut the buds from the stem
Little floret bulbs mourn
And when she kissed her mouth
All her little secrets spilled

Dead weather and frills.



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