I'm burning the skin
on my forehead
until my gray matter
sizzles
because I won't live or die
with your lipstick there

I'm not the traitor

~

I'm painting a picture
with wine stains
on a white ball gown
that someone's mother
wore to her wedding
The broken glass pricks my finger

Some of the stains aren't red

~

I saw you rouge your cheeks
and rub your lips with berry juice
You lined your eyes with
kohl imported on my coin
I forgave you,
and watched you leave

I went to bed alone

~

I'm going to a magic show
because in my disillusionment,
everything I see is illusion
anyway
So the grainy sepia, the fuzzy noir
black and white
soothes me like dreamless sleep

The act includes a bullet catch

~

I howled at the moon,
and then I laughed at all the wrong clouds