The love made itself into a thick paint over my door;
It dripped and clawed at me, never drying, never ignored.
Always some hazard that would fall and leave a stain on me...
A screaming red blotch
On solemn, cold, ebony floors.
It's always been disturbing, like blood;
Drawing the wrong crowd...
Filling the beasts with hunger...
Causing more damage than it really should.
I laid awake at night, it's every drop opens my eyes.
From a once subtle detail,
It grew to be a hammer that strikes steel.
My ears would ring, adrift in hypnogogia,
Where the ceiling is where my feet go
And rugged earth, is my limit;
I would gasp for a breath of sanity
Head pounding,
Heart sprinting,
To realize I'd find none of it
From the "love" that drips.
Today, that "love" is dead.
It's constant pursuit of earth and stone
Is nothing more than a barely visible
Scratched-out stain.
Yet I know even less sleep.
I know that my ceiling is not where my feet go,
I know that the earth is not my limit,
But rather, the sky.
I'm beginning to realize just how long it takes
For my frail body to succumb to coma,
Comatose for barely an hour
And when I drift,
I hear that hammer, and I hear that steel.
Such a thing dared to push to me to madness,
In it's presence, in all of it's falling glory...
Yet in it's absence, I only know comfort
When I caress the stains
With my hands...