a bloodstained sort of love

his tears dripped into jasmine tea, while
the stench of hopelessness permeated
his mind
and the rainy breeze blew gently through the window

and the voices in his head whispered that
real men never cry
but he couldn’t stop
because all he’d ever wanted was bleeding to death
under the table
and he could hear the sirens coming for him.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: