Sickness

Why am I so cold while
you paint wretched yellow
pictures on a wall of this
old stagnant room?

And you contemplate
suicide as I dream of
red roses and rainy
nights in grey.

And I say shoot, pull the
trigger, so I may smile
in my self indulgence. cry
while you rot.

You turn the barrell at my
sunken face, I smile, and
think only you could blow
me away.

You turn and paint your
nails, the color of oil the
color of our dirty love,
pitch black.

Biting my bloody lips
I ignore the whim to slap
your sullen face, to scratch
away the filth.

I lie on twisted black
satin and watch as you
paint wretched yellow
pictures.