Literaryspill

~~SOMETIMES IT ONLY TASTES LIKE SUGAR~~

I hit the bottom of the glass

and its all warmth

and its all emptiness

and its all you

and its only

shame turned to

whiskey turned to

rum soaking

on bleeding lips.

You fed me

tawdry drinks

mixed

with cheap promises

and easy conversation.

Yesterday

I thought I tasted sugar.

Today

it tastes like bullshit.

tastes like you

~~OF THE THINGS THAT COME BACK TO YOU~~

if you are coming home

please leave any trails that bring you

directly to my doorstep

you are no longer wanted here.

or needed.

~~Belle’s Romance~~

these things are like

delicate, frail tea cups

and they

fall apart like petals, drenched

with sultry winter air

you haven’t looked for me yet

in all the places I thought you would

i have yet to move anywhere else

i have yet to move.

UNTITLED

25920 seconds seem like yesterday,

not the trivial things,

like what you said

or what I was wearing that day,

just the feelings after,

hot steam running against cold skin

cheek on hard tile

washing away the bitterness of a wintry chill

with soap and shampoo;

its the insignificant things that get stored away,

and when unearthed later on

at the most inconvenient times

make you ache.

like the burning sensation of tap water

on pale skin

the tart, acidic smell of vomit

inhaled after purging yourself

from the spurning of a vapid man

or the exact moment

when you reminisce on the feeling

of warm lips grazing each other,

fingers interlaced;

hearts beating in unison

wasn’t it just yesterday?

that I was suffocating by your hand

my lungs pleading for air

you tightening the noose

wasn’t it just yesterday?

but tell me

wasn’t it just yesterday

that you loved me?

writing2u:

The Dirt Beneath the Snow

Even if the snow falls.

Covering the soft green earth

with its ashen dust,

altering the ground.

The earth fights back.

Always evolving.

Never devastating.

Even if you come back to me

I won’t.

I won’t.

©Nathalie M. Viorato

writing2u:

The Memory of Rain

the rain is warm now.

I can feel it

wet, sharp

like acid trickling down

frail, unprotected skin

sliding into my eyes;

every tear cries for you,

every tear burns.

©Nathalie M. Viorato