Macrame of Dystopian Realm

The immortal cards of your metaphors haunted me endlessly. Thus, i haven't moved in years. Sitted in a balcony whose walls were extensions of purgatory, here, i fished for mars and mercury as i remembered your mosaic eyes with that licorice scent. Yeah, women don't just need love and care. They got dreams, too. And, i fed your core for both. But why? I helped you puddle on that lunatic sea while i nullified all those demons that invalidate your worth. And, it wasn't fair that i let you took all the dophamines. . . but when you reached your HIGHS you sent me mails that spelled my EULOGY. Those were FLUENT ways of etching soul-piercing scars with neon insults and origamis of aches, my ex-queen. How could you hum the ballad that rusted my lungs? How could you pour cancer in my yellow lego joy? Dang! I am below ZERO, still holding a comatose illustration of you while herding wild pansies of cremated happiness. Perhaps, US is a macrame of dystopian realm and synthetic fate. Yet, i still prayed "may your happiness abbreviate my pain so i could be free". Indeed, nobody can point who the REAL deads are. ***Published in my book "Tomorrow We Will Be Stranger" Follow me on facebook/twitter/instagram: @Sycamore_Wild