There she sits, with her back to the sun.
Her hair seems as black as the devils soul.
If he ever owned one, I’d imagine.
I wonder what she scribbles of today.
Memories, stupid fucking memories.
Boxes of them.
Labeled & neatly shoved to the ceiling.
I’m left with a storage unit receipt and an empty bed.
Puzzling how one can seem so beautiful.
Yet so utterly disgusting inside.
What has our world failed to offer?
You seem to be breathing & writing this,
Aren’t you darling?
It’s ok to be sad.
It’s ok to feel pain, to be angered.
To be consumed by hate.
Drenched with rage and bitterness.
Doused with mania.
I hope it haunts you.
I hope you pay every-day.
With everyone.
With everything.
With every interaction.
I hope it hits you.
I hope it hits you when you’re starving.
I hope you feel sick.
You don’t deserve the substance that leaks from this pen.
But here it is.
So tell me.
Enlighten me.
How do you feel now?
Knowing that I no longer am capable of sleeping at night.
Congratulations.
Brooke Constantino