I was a Winehouse with my words,
as they slipped so effortlessly off our tongue,
darts to target, bloods of reds, spilling,
bouldering truths nestled, carved
between the bosom of my insecurities.
I launched war ships, missiles
with the tangle of liquids swishing
through my esophagus fuming
from the darkest hallows of my heart.
Coffins lay yards of haunting,
filmed facids of my own face, face me.
She once streamlined words of love
in exchange for contentment,
her soul rattling, wakening at the passing
of horror hosted within.
Perhaps it is kiting winds of words
laced with a champagne of therapy,
eyes whiting at the revolution spoken
from one’s truth, building bridges instead
of the backs of bones breaking.
Perhaps that throne threw her away
from a love she once loved,
positioned in truths of her passion, our purpose.
So naturally a force of warmth
in the wintered hours.
May she remember her favorite song to sing.
May she manage to trace the time
of where it has lapsed.
Bor, the need for a tunnel fostering resentment,
on the eve of the bristles dipped onto the pigment
to sway across a used canvas,
whose picture no longer resembled the times.
May she strike lightening.
A vintage of vanishing points
tilted by the glass of her eyes.
The list of ships kissed to shore,
pearled flags wafter in the wind,
the final viewing,
the final varnishing.
May the mirror become a friend, once again.