The cold wine scorches your chapped lips;

the flame burns in fluorescent whispers,

it whispers about her.

You drink and drink 'til

everything turns frozen as ice-white

in the blasphemous hymns.

Shades of neon color the ashes gold.

Another sip.

She's dead.

No warmth escapes from your eyes.

Your veins are static blue without her.

Roses are tearing apart.

Moments of sherry, caffeine talks,

nicotine love, late-night apologies

pressed like dead flowers

in between moth-eaten pages.

You're dying step by step.

The promises build constellations upon

the silence of phosphorus.

The coffee tastes stale on your lips.

You watch and wither away.

Pretty girls never cry.

Pretty girls never fade away.

Pretty girls like you hide their bruises

under their long sleeves

'til you drown in the runny red rivers.

And it's okay — we're all children of broken skies and weeping angels.