my mouth is blades:

It was a work of art.

By nature dangerous.

Every brush stroke, a fang.

A predator in oil and canvas.

What were you afraid of?

It’s only a mirror.

A promise to bite.

To cover you in charcoal, in ink.

A chance at the idyllic marred by red.

Personally I prefer to wait

to find a work thats ready to pounce.

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