frostyshadows

Sometimes I still see you as rain-scented innocence With a morbid fascination for dead butterflies. Now you like to dye your hair the colour of their wings, All the shades of teenage rebellion. You seduce leather studded danger with Smudged kohl and a touch of cold indifference. When they leave you with bruises and broken mirrors, You blame the heavens and the misaligned stars. I never understood Why you scream anger from the rooftops, Or why you keep gossamer swallowtails in a glass jar. Do you still squeeze their stained glass wings Between times new roman pages Like you did when you weren’t afraid to be happy?