Untitled 20

I hope you understand that I'm no more.

And I'll start from the end, the broken bottles and fractured memories.

They're cut through and the gashes can't be sealed.

Hours I lay, waiting for you, the room a swarming abyss.

My whisper is heartless, a voice speaking to ghosts;

"I think I'm dying,"

and as the metaphorical blood drains away the treachery becomes clear.

He's bent over me, watching the eyes that I think are open flutter behind closed lids.

He won't laugh or smile at the irony in my voice, his face is frozen:

flat affect.

They always chose the wrong victims;

thrown at his feet I'm so right, scathed and self destroyed.

They never want the right victims;

only the ones that will fight and tear away with slivers of flesh between the nail and finger.

He smells love and only brushes away the stray hairs that have fallen out of place in our struggle.

My laugh is strained with the gurgle of blood,

"I'm choking," I muse: always playing games.

I slip away beneath the dark waves:

there's no pain, I stopped feeling.

The sun strikes that one specific spot that I can never ignore.

I drag myself down again,

and he rolls over to see his masochistic angel lying beside him, forever.

This is what decay looks like.