Knives in the Sky

If love was a substance,    
it would be dirt:    
nothing so black    
and disgusting as earth    
under my fingernails -
as a dark, foreign scourge    
that I'd scratch till I bled    
so the red would be heard.    
   
Brown, though I washed them -    
black, though I rubbed -    
maybe scarlet is cleaner,    
I thought, and still scrubbed -    
maybe bleeding is better    
than breathing in rum    
from the lips we both know    
get us filthy with love.    
   
Black, on our faces -    
brown, in our minds -    
this is venomous,    
more than the death of the night -    
more so than the color    
of knives in the sky    
as we cut at the black    
and we watch heaven die -    
as the universe blinks    
out of both of our eyes    
and tomorrow is nothing    
and nothing is time,    
and time is us touching -    
the system awry,    
not a thing will exist    
but the fear of sunrise    
and my mouth on your neck    
as I let you inside -    
think of reasons to stay,    
little reasons to hide    
in the slick of your sweat    
as it mixes with mine,    
   
but that night - listen to me -    
that night, I'll look up    
after everything's dead    
and I'm bruised and undone -    
then my face will catch fire    
while the dread makes me numb;    
I'll glance down at my hands    
just to see what you've done.    
   
There will not be love on them;    
no,    
nothing but blood.    
   
   
~    
   
Age when written: 16