Hollow fellow

I follow this hollow feeling
as if it could replace sorrow.

A guy is never guileless.
He softly caresses my skin,
serenades me with flitting dreams,
alluring promises.

Locking his mesmerizing hazelnut eyes with mine,
my heart pounding uncontrollably against his chest,
what seemed like sweet, innocuous words
seep into my ears like milk and honey.

But they morph into an insidious knife,
my arteries lacerated,
blood gushing onto the white marble floor
like crimson paint on a canvas for his amusement—

as if he were an aesthete who labeled me his muse to use,
carving my bare bones with his initials, leaving his mark,
while his skin remains perfectly unscathed.