False Impression.

I think I created a
false image of you
inside my artistic
mind. I must’ve
mistook your cancerous
words for medicine,
contemplating they
would convalesce
my fresco, abhorrent
wounds; and your
touch- your mollifying,
humane touch belies,
beholding malevolence
that seeps through my
pores, making me bitter
off of the distance that
treads ambitiously on the
moonlit roads. I should’ve
known from the gleam in
your eyes, that resembles
an infantile and coddle
child, that you would’ve
sliced my chest apart,
dismembering all my
fluctuating atoms,
draining your self made
heroin into my impeccable,
charismatic beating organ.