How can I write about motionless, unfeeling, empty white walls?
You write about your unchanging, cold, blank mind
How can I write about slammed, unrelenting, locked white doors?
You write about your crushing, unobtainable, closed-off heart
How can I write about falling, unstoppable, restricting white ceilings?
You write about your deadly, unfair, judging mouth
How can I write about a room that doesn't hold me?
*You write about your past

This house made of brick and stone,
glass and wood,
now crumbles to the earth beneath me.
But this house was empty
long before it was gone.

The people inside,
the people
the people
the monsters,

They ripped open their lungs
and filled themselves with smoke.
They  ripped open their veins
and filled themselves with poison.
They grew sickly and cold
with black, sunken eyes.
They starved themselves to the bone
until that was all they were.
Feet shuffled against dark-stained hardwood floors,
yet they never touched the ground.

Ghosts.
Ghosts who couldn't sleep,
for the darkness was no longer home.
Ghosts who couldn't breathe,
for all they inhaled was smoke.
Ghosts who screamed.
Ghosts who cried.
Ghosts who never made a sound.

Holding on until fingers grew limp.
This house was empty
long before it was gone.

Oh, great grandeur of thy visage, fair,
Thy impeccable beauty we descry
And at thy silvery glory stare.

Pure Goddess, I present to thee
My heart fractured and crimson steeped
And ask for thy loving eye to heal and free.

I no longer know what I am or who I appear to be.
I am a mask; the rest of me remains unseen.

Lost in a sea of broken mirrors,
But nothing grows clearer;

All I am is the glint in your dying eyes,
Quietly drowning in my hollow lies.

I know not who I am or what I do;
All I know is in this pool of scarlet hue.

So sweet is the raz'r of thy tongue
That hath from my flesh stole
My vigour young
And my heart made cold

By thy caustic speech;
Off thy lips shot,
Pluck'd my heart's petals each
And cause my veins to clot.

So sweet is the torment wrought
By thy tongue sharp
And my heart stopp'd
From thy lungs' wretch'd harp.

What was lost in your Nyctophilic heart?
What life you brazenly stole.
What you take when you depart
And tear away from my soul

Mislaid, descried in sound recondite.
Quietus forward brought,
Found in your eyeless sight.
Agony of memories forgot.

Sable veins wrapped around fragile beings
Who, in wretched love lost,
Find their hearts fleeing
And to each other dyingly accost.

Blooden'd tears fall upon
Thy tender cheek.
A hollow chime is laid
Bare on swollen ears.

The blank canvas of thy
Body lies still like a mirror'd
Pool in aspect of night's
Algid face of innocence.

Under evocative, tragic skies,
In the fields of summer bright,
Lost in lamentation's hue
Thy death as sweet as roses' bloom.