Red

The thought tears through my carbon-copied skin
And burns all the fires I thought I'd be in.
I can feel the pressure pulling,
The pleasure lulling,
Like caramel blood resting on the tip of my tongue
Too sweet to swallow,
Too sticky to follow.

It clings to your poison touch,
Your razor softness doesn't hurt as such,
But drags itself along my neck
And just a speck
Of dried decay, the toxic sigh
Which runs from my lips,
The stakes too high,
So I salute the sips,
And they seal the tips.

In my misty hour, I wish to feel
To hold onto that broken scar
But all I can feel is the unspoilt ache
The knife has healed too much.
My hope seems to have run too far.

And suddenly, the sun is high.
I don't try to reach for it.
It's just an impossible brightness.
Shining strong. After a while,
I have to hide my eyes, and then
The rest of me.
The tainted torch in the sky.
Holding me with tantalizing tightness.
I try to break from it.
But I only break.