Whispers
I guess sometimes I'm able to fool myself long enough into believe that I can feel happiness; or at the very least, less unhappy.
Like all mirages, when you get close enough your own fallibility reveals the flaws in your aspirations. Clung tightly to my chest, a parasite of sorts: hope. But when the leeching has had its full, it releases its grip and falls to the floor, with your smile dripping from your chest. Sanguination aside, there doesn't appear to be any resolve. You're ashamed in believing the promises of you salvation. When has beauty befallen upon you and stayed. When have you deserved the wellness that you'd been given--however mistakingly.
A mess can only have so much dirt wiped free before you realize that there's still to much clutter.
Standing before the tallest mirror in the house, you wait for everyone to fall asleep. You dry whatever tears have run free and you say aloud:
"You are unlovable." "You have outstayed your welcome." "You will never be well enough to be loved." "You have been lost to humanity." "Your humanity is gone."
You attempt to interrupt, trying to salvage whatever hope you may still have.
"You are the bane of your own will." "What do you hope to achieve with these feelings of yours?"
...and then the death-knoll rings: "how long do you expect for her to avoid the rotting, decaying blackness in your heart?"
She'll find it soon enough.
Like all mirages, when you get close enough your own fallibility reveals the flaws in your aspirations. Clung tightly to my chest, a parasite of sorts: hope. But when the leeching has had its full, it releases its grip and falls to the floor, with your smile dripping from your chest. Sanguination aside, there doesn't appear to be any resolve. You're ashamed in believing the promises of you salvation. When has beauty befallen upon you and stayed. When have you deserved the wellness that you'd been given--however mistakingly.
A mess can only have so much dirt wiped free before you realize that there's still to much clutter.
Standing before the tallest mirror in the house, you wait for everyone to fall asleep. You dry whatever tears have run free and you say aloud:
"You are unlovable." "You have outstayed your welcome." "You will never be well enough to be loved." "You have been lost to humanity." "Your humanity is gone."
You attempt to interrupt, trying to salvage whatever hope you may still have.
"You are the bane of your own will." "What do you hope to achieve with these feelings of yours?"
...and then the death-knoll rings: "how long do you expect for her to avoid the rotting, decaying blackness in your heart?"
She'll find it soon enough.