His Hands Are His Killer

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Personal, meaningful and sour with heartache.

Submitted: August 02, 2014

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Submitted: August 02, 2014



You've scarred my liver with the vodka that laced your lips, and my waist is painted with bruises from your unforgiving fingertips.

But still in your eyes are reflections of unyielding grey skies, a downpour of droplets deemed to dribble past my temples. 

It hurts hearing your voice tracing the white noise in my head but how much solace and comfort can one find in this dull pain unless you crave to be dead?

I long to feel more than numbness in my spine where your hands used to lay, leaving kisses and goosebumps through blackened sinful nights that cleanse and repent into day.

I remember how the nicotine on your mouth caressed the wounds on my chest, and how I could follow the contours of your body right up to the spot where the sun always missed on the nape of your neck.

Ink and smoke drugged your mind, until your mind was no more and you left this bitter, pain-sodden world behind.

Emptiness. Overwhelming nothingness.

Soon enough my bath water will be murky with crimson red, and then it will be my turn to crawl into cold sheets and fall forever to bed. 


© Copyright 2017 Jordan Paige. All rights reserved.

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