''Cherry Wine.''
Her eyes and words are so icy, oh, but she burns
Like rum on the fire
Hot and fast and angry as she can be
I walk my days on a wire.
I looked through the mirror, not noticing my reflection. My blonde hair a mess: my mascara dripped by the tears. Eyelashes inked by black. A red mark on my face with the imprint of his hand across. Stinging and hurt. Wounded by 'I love you's,' with lips of deceit.
Thought's rang through my head as the faucet dripped a steady flow; I wiped my eyes.
Why?
I heard the door shut downstairs and I rinsed my face.
Promises of 'never again', came soon after. Was it that easy?
The door shut behind me as I trembled my way down the mahogany staircase.
Calls of guilty thrown at me, all while she stains
The sheets of some other
Thrown at me so powerfully, just like she throws
With the arm of her brother.
She cheated.
Her lips stained by someone who wasn't me. I didn't mean to do it.
Did she deserve it?
Yes.
As I pounded into her that night, after our fight, and we kissed and made up: the only thought I had was that of her enjoying herself with another. Her lips were tainted and I felt replaced. We screamed so much our throats grew hoarse and the cops came because of a 'noise complaint.' That fucking bitch.
My hopeless devotion led me astray, I followed her like a lost puppy: I lost it when I saw the texts. The pictures. Her with someone else. I wanted to burn her, sear her until she felt scorched by how devoted I am. I'm the only one who can hurt her: she only deserves me.
I'm hers.
Her fight and fury is fiery, oh, but she looks
Like sleep to the freezing
Sweet and right and merciful, I'm all but washed
In the tide of her breathing.
I'm down but he keeps hitting. He's screaming and he's lifting me onto the couch, his hands wrapped around my neck. The mirror reflects back at me: you deserve this. I know I do.
My cerulean orbs are filled with tears. Eyes red and blotchy from popped blood vessels. Please stop. He doesn't.
I regret it all. His hips pounded into me savagely- his breathing ragged and hot against my neck. I hated his fucking touch: the way he smiled at me as he said, ''I love you,'' when just before he had thrown me into the coffee table. Follow me like a lost puppy- keep hurting me.
This is how it's supposed to be. Stockholm syndrome.
The tears fall and the curtain ends. Flashing red and blue show up, promises broken, soul ripped. And he's gone. Taken away.
I want him back.
The way she shows me I'm hers and she is mine
Open hand or closed fist would be fine
The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine.