Mourning Monsters

And I might be beautiful if it weren’t for all these scars. This rot ridden soul. Putrid and hateful.
No matter how deep the razor goes it just can’t reach what’s wrong. Because it’s everything. Every breath, beat, lash, cell. Every day, hour, moment. Curling out, up, in.

The only way to get out is to break out for good. Break down. Decay. Big bright red Cheshire grin. Sloppy jagged hunks of flesh sickeningly remindful of teeth gushing crimson vomit. And it’s all tumbling out now.
Worthless
Wasteful
Wicked
Wrong
Wrong
Wrong
And if you ever did anything right they might love you.
If you cease. Cease to be. Think.

And if you could, please, just be a little less you. However, it really doesn’t seem to be worth my time, so why don’t you just continue on.

While you’re busy championing Jonathan Harker, I’m mourning Dracula.
And who is there to hold me while I lose control?
Who is there to ease the pain of loss?
Who is there to ease the heartache?
Who is there to tell me the sun will set and night will return once more?


Maybe they would be,
If you weren’t a Monster.

But then who would you be?

A Burning Brilliant Star

I saw you. In that moment I was a burning brilliant star. Something shining and new and beautiful. Something worthwhile. I blazed across the sky, a fierce stellate shooting across the heavens to show how dim the stars burned in stasis.

Symphonies ruptured the silence of a stillborn heart and life poured out and covered the soul. Life expressed its vitality in that ailing string. Resounding, overwhelming, cascading and invasive. Everything was right. Everything was sure. Conducive. An affirmation of a myriad of portents, omens and signs; fiercely drowning cataract.

First breath. First sight. Everything renewed, restored. Vigor. Palatable, sensual.


And you turned only to vanish. An aberration, illusion. Some vicious oasis in this desert wasteland. Destruction as beautiful as the creation.

If love is the master, hope is the apprentice.