You grew jealous of my tears,
how they gently stroked my face as I slowly lost my mind, in your absence.
You called me your mad Queen,
your doolally doll,
dying once an hour until you picked up the phone,
then collapsing into infatuated incoherence at the sound of your voice.
I never cry when you’re close,
ironing your shirts in the warm glow of your eyes,
layering your skin in my lip gloss as I claim your body and soul for myself,
laying under the stars as blood spills down into the bay.
Your sword hand is shaky,
secure in my grasp,
I share my tears with you,
trying so hard to make you clean,
telling you how you gleam and glitter before me,
in the hopes that you’ll believe it,
and that one day,
you’ll stop seeing the crowd of corpses that surround us.