Burnt mirror, smeared glass. Do you like what you see? If my body is a temple, then my poetry is the darkest vestry. My mouth is a chalice, and these words are sacramental.
Champagne on our lips and desire on our minds and you can leave those painful memories behind and you can bring your hand to my heart as we kiss. There’s nothing else but us on nights like this.
I was told I could break free if I wanted to. That my wings would mend with time. But how can I mend a part of me that was never built to weather a storm?
