When will you stop being
the monster under my bed,
and start being the skeleton
in my closet?
When will you stop being
the monster under my bed,
and start being the skeleton
in my closet?
Let me crack-crumble
between the bones of your fingers,
let me leave shards beneath your nails and
in the cushions of your joints
so you
may never lose the taste
of me.
The winter was the warmest,
the summer brings the chill,
you promised me I shan’t survive,
I promise you, I will.
Yours is the undercurrent whose tide
rips through
the sand and stones,
when the coast is no longer enough,
and the freedom
is far too much.
You
were the cold steel in hand,
the sharpened blade,
the killer’s instinct.
You
were the night’s own comfort,
the light of the stars,
the heat of the flame.
You
were tomorrow’s beginning,
the finality of us,
and the only thing that mattered.
It’s a shame
that the greatest things
you’ve ever done,
were the things I’d only hoped
you would ever do,
but didn’t.
You are
the sweet tang of strawberries,
the sticky softness of cotton candy,
and the warmth of hot chocolate
to someone who hates sweets.
Stainless steel hooks in the soft,
delicate flesh of my arms,
lining the crook of my spine,
the slightest tug south to drag me north,
you left little hooks in me,
with thread tied in little knots,
and when you left,
tore them free,
and left little shreds imbedded
in me.
Every fatal flaw,
all of your hubris and shame,
your spoilt arrogance,
will be forever
within written word.
Enjoy being immortal;
you did always want to live
forever.
Your limbs were long and willowed,
bowed and knotted,
a depiction of the rot inside.
No number of blossoms at your
fingertips,
can distract from your gnarled
and twisted way.
