'Drink up my sweet, the game is over'

Yes, there it goes again.
Rip, rip... I rip paper.
Snowflakes, flying everywhere.
So beautiful, like angels.

But the messages they carry
are far worse than blasts of rain.

Sweet winged angels
with souls of pure evil.
Sipping acid in the sunlight,
playing their little games
of razorblades and laughter.
Such carefree detachment...

The sudden cracking of my brain
has gone away, asleep and well.
The beating on the window of rain
puts me to rest. How fake.

The game is on and I'm a victim.
Angelic feathers tickle hearts,
They play and giggle.
...little feathery wings,
Stop tickling my life!

The blade's too sharp,
it's cold.
My blood is colder.
The sockets of my eyes are cold
and wet with dew of death.

Thick waves of life...
I'm finally alive!
I wasn't wrong, my heart is red
and red with blood!
...my head has lost its purpose,
the blood flows free.
The angels' game is finished.

But wait, they are no angels...
I see their disguise at last.
Acidic cups are empty now
and they will never sting again.
The wings were fake,
sweet buttercups were demons...

I didn't wake,
I was still dead.
Life never came.
It all stayed still.

By: Alisa Popova