It feels nothing compared to

how nothing feels in the cold bathroom air.

You're a hollow red-raw mess dipped

in pale blue cyanide.

Steamy mirror cuts against the broken tiles

and a museum of chaotic art wedge beneath

your ribcage; something's slowly

making you fade away into the caving walls.

How untamed, lifeless trauma can be

when you decide to burn it before yourself.

For you'd forget her than yourself

before you remember this night and not someone else.

The skies burn onto the last thing cracked out of your knuckles—

how white in lifelessness, molten orange in bleeding pain;

The quietest metaphor buries itself into your bruised woes.

-there's no looking back once the skies burn into rosewater blood and orange burns.