I always admired
your blueish-red skin
which complemented your fire-green eyes.
The snake-like hues
in your eyes,
which I had once found beautiful,
now angled themselves toward your demise,
and you were purple, to my surprise.
I locked myself away, unsure of what you would say
but knew it would be lies.
It’s dark, where I am. Not cold, for cold gives you solace. Not hot, as in a hammer striking molten iron to make a sword. Not warm, pointlessly and deliberately harsh and itchy.
"Who are you?" It cooed.
Its eyes behind my back
spoke to the intent of its curiosity,
something brushed against my hand
in a low yet dangerous level of ferocity.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
I rang the doorbell to your heart,
and throughout your house it rang,
a bouquet of astilbes in one hand
and in the other a pink dove.
I carved it of cherry wood just for you,
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