My lips are not soft, fresh
Or new.
They are dry and rough,
Scarred from self-infliction.

My lips trip over themselves,
Flubber- I mean, flutter- like the butterflies in my stomach.
But there are sweet nothings waiting in the wings of my mouth,
Dark corners twisting into chapel confessionals,
Calling God by his petnames of lover, baby.
My lips are a pair of bows,
Poised to fire Cupid's arrow.

My lips are slick with regrets.
Can't you see them dripping down,
One by awful one?
They glisten in the dark,
Keeping me from sleep.

And yet, all the night-tide,
My lips are like the moon:
Waxing full of promises-
Promises I am proud to keep under my gums.

My lips may run like faultlines across my face,
Clash and spark like steel,
Draw blood like any other sword.
My lips turn me in every time.

But they've got a lot of kisses to give.

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