bloody lips

I use my own blood for lipstick
     because everyone tells me how pretty my personality is –
           I want my insides on my face
so I can be pretty there too.
And my sister never had to prick her finger for red lips
   because she doesn’t need ruby red lips like I do
everyone notices her beauty.
She’s a piece of art, my sister,
    and people want her in their paintings
        and in their photos.
  I’m the other one – the second one,
the one shaking with anger,
the one whose sadness is under the carpet.
But at least I’ll have nice lips,
even though they’re cracked,
     at least they’ll glow.
 You don’t have to hug me
and tell me that it’ll all be okay
like you do to her every single time we visit,
becuase my loneliness is my reality
and her loneliness is only an illusion.
Instead, I’ll stay up every night until 3am,
the darkness comforts me more than you ever did
and the cold has taught me more than you have.
       No one wants to kiss my bloody lips
hers look fuller.
I’ve forgotten how to steal love
but I don’t even know if I want it back.


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