It’s not like I’m not sick of trying,
a mistress to my madness,
the lavish Lady Byron.
Reborn and reformed,
but still chaotic and cruel,
surviving shipwrecks but always missing the ocean in my lungs.
It’s so easy to surrender,
to die without a fight,
so that I will be remembered as the perfect mix of desolate and dazzling.
I’m not desperate, these days,
I take each moment as it manifests,
because while my body walks the Earth,
I am high above the sky,
in a place nobody has ever been,
and nothing down there seems to do much for me anymore.
I am a wayward witch,
without judgement or self command,
just to be a decoration to the sunrise’s sweet rays,
raining down on the Earth I’ll never reign,
hoping to land at my lover’s door.
She considers me insane,
careful as she kisses me.
My nail polish is still wet,
and our love is young and lustful.
The stars are bright and braying,
and her hands are all over mine,
until we are both covered in cheap, black nail varnish.
She never asks me where I go,
or how long I’ll be missing,
she just tells me that she misses me,
and each time she does,
it is more and more addictive.
My arms are covered in scars,
but she never asks me for their stories,
she just sits and stares by the front door,
until I fall down from the sky.