juliet's blood. juliet's blood. juliet's blood. can you see it darling? clinging to the soles of your palms. it's red is breeding, it's red is bleeding, all underneath your warm clean fingertips. can you feel it? seeping and soaking, and melding, becoming one with your peach palms. juliet's blood. juliet's blood. juliet's blood. do the boreal waters of the riverbank cleanse your hands?

but don't you understand? he said it was an accident.

and how could he ever lie? just look into the golden sunset of his eyes; the morning mourning misery, and silk-like light sin pierce your bleeding heart! can't you see? your romeo would never do such a thing! such a pair of perfect paragon paramours ensnared in a ribbon-wrapped capulet capsule of summer love, entwined in each other's celestial arms, and covered in star-crossed kisses that trail the mounts of their loveless napes. murder would never befall shakespeare's sweetheart spawns.

but yet her pale corpse lays bereft and broken like a porcelain doll; her lavender death lingers upon the creek like musk. and you can't help but look at her blood—

juilet's blood. juliet's blood. juliet's blood. it sticks to the earthly floor, her soul submerged within the soft-brown soil, seeping into the buds of dead blossoms, she's the reason why poppies petals bloom bouts of red, the death of the goddess-like girl rattles the heart of the sycamore tree, who grieved as she came crashing down, breaching her bouquet skull, a crimson-ichor colored coated concave engraved on her golden head, letting a chasm open constellations of blood. staining the ground, tainting it's roots, smearing his palms, and blackening the world. she is star-crossed, star-slaughtered, star-slain. and no longer beautiful. juliet's blood. juliet's blood. juliet's blood. it's dipping onto your fingertips and you can't seem to wash it away.

her blonde tresses are sprawled upon the earth's grasp; limbs of twigs and follicles of autumn leaves are trapped in the labyrinth of her hair. her once blue-velvet eyes turned milk porcelain white yet it feels like she's looking at you, darling. staring at every inch of sin that plagues that romeo boy. (her gaze ripping at the ugly mends of your disgusting heart) but you'd tell for her, right? please look at her and tell her you'd say something. she opens her mouth and something pink slithers out. her lips are chafed a ghostly blue but she only speaks to you-

'look at me! look at me! look at me! look at me! i know you see me! so look at me! say something for me!'

but romeo's wringing his chestnut locks in hands, a canvas of montague misery paints his cheekbones with silver stardust, his long lashes are adorned with teary death and disastrous beauty. he looks like beautiful catastrophe--wrapped in the whirlwinds of a midsummer nightmare. romeo has never looked so divine, and you drink up the sight; watching the soul of a mortal but the face of god fall apart like empyrean clouds crying beyond a mural of dawn. and the sunset of his eyes are restless. what a wonderful shade of molten vesper they are. like droplets of molten sunshine and golden dew on heaven moss. so bright they almost hide the midnight lurking in his soul, the dark lilac dusk in his irises, and the sanguine taste of twilight lingering on the tip of his warm tongue—

oh, how their eyes burn!

she's watching you. look at me. look at me. look at me.

he's staring at you. will you tell. will you tell. will you tell.

to speak or not to speak.

"no. i won't."

your lungs are left breathless. it only took a moment and guilt is kissing your ears. but the way he looks at you. the sunshine. the sunrise. the sunset. it gold. bright and golden. he has no other choice but to look at you. you're the magnetic pulse humming underneath his skin, you're the gilded ligaments to his ivory bones, you're the ichor that runs through his veins. he knows you now. you ripped the storm of a shadow from your body. you're visible, you're a memory, you're a being, you're beautiful, you're an infection—you're a pair of hearts connected to this pathetic blood ridden string. it's romeo and you.

and who's to say juliet knows the truth? corpses can weave countless lies and whispers of despair just like the living. it was an accident. can't you see? those scratches, those bruises, upon his chest—are nothing. a mere mistake, a mere struggle in the palm of god.

your tragedy of a mind bellows;

JULIET'S BLOOD! JULIET LIES! JULIET'S BLOOD! JULIET'S LIES! JULIET'S BLOOD! JULIET LIES JULIET'S BLOOD! JULIET LIES!

JULIET'S—

dead.

oh, romeo! her lips are cold but your heart seems colder.

~art~