The eye is left to bruise, while the sky bleeds into blues. I take a breathe but I feel nothing, the air a cold and brittle thing. The eye closes and cries, oozing tears of black sticky smears.
To kiss is but lies, all pretty words and ties, bounding each other hand to hand. The bruise is like a brand, red and shiny, gleaming with fear.
There’s only one more bottle of beer.
Cool and sharp, the tongue is a whistling whip that makes a sharp crack into the room, and even butterflies flit and flutter in the stomach, turning a blind eye into the skye.
The song sings I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, like the croon of an old country song, while tattered curtains cover the windows and hide the lies.