Pt. 1: Love

Wrapped around my fingers, 

I cling to your wisps

as they seep out

from between your hardcovers. 

You tempt me into your wooden limbs. 

Pull me closer to steal

a morsel of your perfume,

blooming as pages erode. 

I don’t mean to indulge 

but I can almost see the crimson 

pulsing from within you. 

Amaranthine promises beckon. 

I force a double-take.

Flowery promises won’t fool me.

No more unearthing memories

—laced in preservatives—

only to have them decay. 

My awkward hands would tear the petals anyway.

But you pull me by the hand, 

you stand so silent. 

I take the way you gaze back

as a vow

promising

that I will leave uncut. 

I reach out, 

reaching back. 

— — — 

Pt. 2: Lies

You look back, 

disheveled.

Such a heinous crime. 

An arranged facade

pulled apart by the spine. 

Your insides carved out,

gaps unfilled

with indiscriminate hysteria. 

Collections of dust, 

volumes of whispers,

amassed over years,

are coming down 

in a clamour. 

Mutilation. 

Pieces of your face 

lie strewn across the floor,

upturned, pried open, and dashed. 

You promised my throat 

wouldn’t close up again. 

The dust of my crime

found its way in. 

I reach for another

but without time 

to breathe between inhales. 

— — — 

Pt. 3: Bleeding

An empty bookshelf. 

I ripped you apart, 

stripped bare,

your essence removed. 

Each book,

each furious inspection met with

a retaliation of a thousand knives.

A slashing at the fingers 

drew paper cuts

that stained you. 

For what it’s worth,

I did find the flower,

sleeping between pages.

I smear it with bleeding fingertips

and look into you,

looking back. 

I can hear you.

You can’t tell whether 

crimson amaranths are amaranthine

or if I have

bloodstained this flower.