Bare

my words are not flowers bunched together in pleasing arrangements for the empty admiration of friends and strangers who value nothing beyond the aesthetic (their eyes are exhausted from feigning interest anyway) my words are not the gentle brush of your fingertips but the visceral remnants of the love that ripped through me like hell, untamed and still smoldering with the embers of every second you walk past and neglect to touch me my words are not silken veils wherein truth can hide like the maiden behind her mask, flashing a haunting gaze at those who would attempt to see her and winking, in a whirl of velvet and musk, turns away my words are not your safety net but the kick from the cliff unrelenting and screaming into the abyss that you should finally look down (but it's easier, isn't it, to close your eyes and just fall)