Tick. Tock. Two hundred down.
Swindled minds flock
so easily into their cages,
sealed vents pushing gas into their lungs.
Hooks hanging from walls,
bloodied chains supporting old bones.
Mirror image rooms kept secret, filled
with decay and trapped ghosts. The neon
sign flickering. 'Hotel'.
Pulling the moths in with its fire,
ready to burn them.
Tick. Tock. Twenty seven around.
The drugs were inefficient -
they never slept forever.
I had to help them get there. I was born
with the devil in me
and he sings like a poet in the shadow of evil.
I feel their blood on my hands and I enjoy it.
Tick. Tock. Nine were found.
"Satan corrupted me, controlled me."
"I am imprisoned within myself, I swear."
"He made me."
The lever is flipped, I fall.
My neck does not snap.
Instead, I struggle, the air being forced
from my body. Darkness comes
after the fond memory of a knife in my hand
and blood on the walls of my murder castle.
You hide behind a curtain of insecurity,
blushing and allowing your eyes to fall
to the floor when they give you kind words
to follow and acknowledge. Deflection
is a skill so fine tuned and honed
that it is innate, a reflex built
into your body. Yet you never stopped
to think that they never had to say
those lovely things
and they chose to anyway because they truly
believed them. Perhaps it's time
for you to believe them too.
I know you will be alive and in love
like a child for the first time.
You will chase and daydream
and trace their name on fogged over windows
and even though you're older,
you'll be none the wiser
and just as dazed and clueless
as I am now.
I was the bringer of dawn, pulling the sun
into the sky and allowing my constellation
to fade before His light. I leant against
the edge of darkness and stood, for a moment,
amongst the bright white of Heaven's Throne, deep
chasms of blue circling my feet.
I was the greatest of them all,
He made me the greatest of them all. I
was a prince, the lord of the air. Now,
I am nothing. The shining one, light bearer;
sent to epitomise darkness and evil.
My wings have been blackened by soot and clogged
by smoke - they will never fly again.
I will never see the sun or be free
amongst the stars once more, pushing the sky
around the Earth. I will never feel His
approving hand on my shoulder or resting
on my head. He cast me away as if
I was nothing and cut my hair from my head,
replacing flaxen curls with horns of blackened bone.
The Devil, they call me. The slanderer
who was hurled from heaven to hell. I see myself
in pools of despair: is this who I have become?
Where did the man who shook the earth
with the beat of his wings and make whole countries
tremble go? I made the world a wilderness
and now I'm gone it has been cultivated
into a dull plain of melancholy.
I am nothing without the white brightness
of the night's sky, I was son
of the morning. Venus was my head,
the morning star my heart.
Now, my constellation lies in the ashes
of soul fire because of my foolish pride and envy.
Rooms filled with fire compelling the darkness,
burning on light, emptying the room. No
hearing or seeing or smelling, only
tasting the smoke of my friends burning, feeling
the flames licking my cheeks. The faint sound of
wood thudding into a skull reverberates
through me. So far away yet still here.
The light comes back to see the bodies
of loved ones falling, skulls caved in. Bones limp
and eyes sparkless. Dead. I hear laughter as
palms hover over candles, seething and melting
skin dripping from their hands, faces.
Mouths misshapen and crude, jagged,
cruel. Skin drained, white as bone, red eyes of blood
dripping with death. Your soft body approaches me.
All is calm and well until your body
merges with the rest of them and you condemn me
with eyes of rotting flesh.
Grass beneath my feet
and soil in my hands,
Your lips on mine,
wrapping me around your fingers
and splitting the silence
I keep waiting for the world
to one day become still
but you dizzy and confuse me
as if you are a planet
and I am the asteroid
caught in your orbit.
I wander these halls with an empty heart and hollow cheeks,
my body starving. It's easy, not eating.
It becomes a battle of wills. Which will win,
who will break first.
I externalise the hunger.
I paint and write, anything
to make the sharp hunger dull and easily forgotten.
Mornings merge with evenings and all is tied together
by the sensation of hunger. Even when the numbness
settles in there is still the intensity of the feeling
within you. Something to hold onto. Reliable.
I'm dead inside this withering skin, paper flesh,
weak bonds tying my veins together.
I'm a zombie roaming these halls
straight out of fiction.
Dead woman walking. Hips that could cut,
soft teeth, weak bones.
I wander these halls with an empty heart and hollow cheeks
in hopes of finding beauty somewhere
down the line of crumbs and self-destruction.