There are meadows of yellow ochre
That live over
our horizon.
If you cry for a love
That is not mine,
Why are you so surprised
To find
The staining of my dye?
My fields are only of
Indigo,
And
Pigment is only so
Penetrating.
The nature of tradition
Does not grow within me.
It is soft on the mind
To think I was bestowed
With plague
At birth.
Our walls are bleeding,
How does no one see It?
The ink is seeping into skin,
Filling all the cracks
In my porcelain
You never cared to repair.
Even after my soul laid bare
Its wounds,
You pour the salt
And wear the crown.
The thorns shine
With blood I shed
And bark of pine.
It is
As if
Victory
Has turned you blind.
Celebrate your coronation-
Attention you tend to
Whilst you feed my abandonment.
It is by miracle
I love to starve.
A tongue of silver,
A heart of horror.
There are words
That bleed from the walls.
You don’t have see it-
I can fucking feel it.
A little letter from Scarlet:
This poem was loosely inspired by the Röttgen Pietà, one of my favorite pieces of Gothic art. Created in late Medieval Europe by an unknown artist, it was made to show the suffering humanity of Christ- a quality that had often been disregarded to favor a more romanticized depiction (no shade, they had to prove his divinity to the masses for Christs sake). While I am not religious and do not negate the Christian origins that brought creation to this piece, I find the beauty of it to lie in the absolute horror it radiates to viewer. It evokes emotions of disgust, revulsion and raging sadness. It is an emotional experience that I can gladly stay stuck in, as I can stare at it for hours, haha.
The Scarlett Locket 
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