Photo by Gabriel Isak

People like us, my dear,
Touch the aubade with their bare skin.
We wear shiny black lipsticks;
Lips that blow iniquitous smoke rings.
Our skin blanch;
And we become blue.
But we’re colorblind;
And we set the world on fire.
We swallow our words
Along with our magic pills;
We asphyxiate.
And we’re not to be saved.
Our chaos are novelistic;
But our demise won’t be poetic.
People think we’re winter,
Because we’re always full of waterfalls
And gale in the midst of the morrows.
But we’re autumnal equinox;
We fall and tremble,
And our leaves etiolate.
Our spirits aren’t just broken;
They’re shattered into pieces
All over our art.
We’re not obdurate;
We’re so sympathetic that it’s tiring.
We paint in colors
Only us can understand.
We write poetry
Only crestfallen hearts can relate to.
We dance on songs
Only our gray matters hear.
And we push away people
We’re afraid to lose.
And our not so benevolent ego
Is what keeps us warm at night.