Your pink sweetheart dress is stained red.
Bow, once your crowning glory on this bloody Valentine, is discarded,
Wrinkled, the flower-dotted fabric dotted with scarlet.
Your dainty fingers with nails sharpened to a point are tearing apart an old flame,
Teeth, usually bared into a pretty smile, are grinding apart his flesh.
I sit next to you, admiring my bloody Valentine.
I find myself positively enamored by the way you're tearing him apart.
So filled with rage. You rip him limb from limb, your sweetly curled hair somehow withstanding the onslaught of ichor.
You light a cigarette.
But not to smoke.
Never to smoke.
You put it out on one of the hands that had lain upon you, eyes rolling back in perverse pleasure at the scent of burning flesh and nicotine.
My bloody Valentine does it again, and again, and again, and again.
You relish in the feeling of getting back at him, to hurt him worse than he hurt you.
My bloody Valentine pops champagne over his mangled body, elegantly.
Always elegantly, you pour us two glasses, and my bloody Valentine drips gore from our past lives and loves into the golden bubbles.
We toast to this bloody Valentine, another day dedicated to our appetite.
Bow, once your crowning glory on this bloody Valentine, is discarded,
Wrinkled, the flower-dotted fabric dotted with scarlet.
Your dainty fingers with nails sharpened to a point are tearing apart an old flame,
Teeth, usually bared into a pretty smile, are grinding apart his flesh.
I sit next to you, admiring my bloody Valentine.
I find myself positively enamored by the way you're tearing him apart.
So filled with rage. You rip him limb from limb, your sweetly curled hair somehow withstanding the onslaught of ichor.
You light a cigarette.
But not to smoke.
Never to smoke.
You put it out on one of the hands that had lain upon you, eyes rolling back in perverse pleasure at the scent of burning flesh and nicotine.
My bloody Valentine does it again, and again, and again, and again.
You relish in the feeling of getting back at him, to hurt him worse than he hurt you.
My bloody Valentine pops champagne over his mangled body, elegantly.
Always elegantly, you pour us two glasses, and my bloody Valentine drips gore from our past lives and loves into the golden bubbles.
We toast to this bloody Valentine, another day dedicated to our appetite.
