The Guitar Men

Met him on the second day. Eyes blue, age sixteen. Young, selfish, and beautiful.
See him? With his hungry eyes, slick windows, Blink as I bite my lip.
Oh, he wants to hurt me.
Chains by his sides jingle mirth on my scars.
He showed me the openings on his fingertips.
Talked about music and April, mirrors and Moses.
The guitar men came to me. With their wavy melody.

First meetings leave red fluttering.
Purple clouds, sweaters, heavy humidity.
Quiet and eager, he likes me meager. Hear him?
All those sliding lines quick as he flicks his wrists.
Oh, he wants to pluck me. My veins leap out of my skin like loose guitar strings, stinging my eyes so I could not see.
That I was his bridge, his wood, his notes and his pick. And he was my love.
The guitar men follow me.
With their wavy melody.

He was my third mission. Gave me sweet depression anecdotes.
He was dirty blonde, deep. Understand him?
In all his sheep-eyed genius, dripping gold clocks, ticking, breaking as I sing my song.
Oh, he does not love me.
To endear the first, yet the nostalgia of glassy blue is enough to cry out!
In hate. In pain. Or maybe we will just stay silent. The guitar men leave me.
With their wavy melody.