The Art of Touch is shattered between stained sheets of satin grown cold.
Nameless strangers and memories sway too fast
I allow empty palms to caress
Each night I promise “He will be my last”
And every evening I let them undress
Losing count in trembling backseat flings
Preying eyes devour innocent consent
Rolling off my cheating tongue
Praying lies taste sour.
Mirror mirror, who’s grin do I see?
With blood stained teeth,
Eyes reflecting defeat,
All to similar to mine.
Mirror Mirror, what have a let myself become?