doled out in loving spoonfuls,
still leaves burns
your sugar can’t temper.
What cruel apothecary —this chemical romance—
that blisters wanting lips
and scalds the tongue,
makes flush the palest cheek—
with a heat, synthetic and caustic,
making me hollow—this playground for echoes—
What to do with this melted skin
that blurs the line between
you and me,
this addictive crash
of candied pain
that boils and bubbles
like black tar heroin in a dirty spoon,
but pitch in its witchery’s wake,
…for that next opiate kiss.
Originally published at Fugitives & Futurists
2 thoughts on “David Estringel”
Sure hit home. Only some will understand black tar bubbles, but those that do will feel the words imagine the taste.
Happiness is a warm gun