Conflicted FeelingsMature

A simple poem written without rhyme.

I like to hear you breathe,
but I'd love to see you bleed.
Trails of dripping vermilion
that gore on your perfect white,
on a snowy winter's eve.

I like to see your eyes,
but I'd love them on a shelf.
Terrified shadows chasing
demons of the past
in a glass jar, coated in dust.

I like to feel your heat,
but I'd love to feel your cold.
Stiff with age and
blue with ice, you sit there
stilled in time.

I like to hear your voice,
but I'd love to hear you scream.
Anguished wails resonating
through a small room,
bouncing from wall-to-wall.

I like to feel your flesh,
but I'd love it peeled from your skeleton.
Pigments of pink and white
against a blushing red
as it dries.

I dislike to hear you whisper,
but I hate to hear your silence.
It drowns out distant memories
of laughs caught in time,
blackening and smoking.

I hate you, I hate you, I love you.
The viscous circle dominating
like a relentless spring breeze,
chilling me to the bone, wiping away
those crystalline tears.

The End

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