Patience was late to my funeral
On your casual ears my voice fell with vicious volume
Bettering any necessity of childish cry
Yet behind the plastic tones I am as silent as a lamb.
Here heard confession: I’ve been least courteous
To these young years who welcomed me over their frame
With warmly bared arms, I met with fire;
Over each threshold my feet held more dirt
Held more scars, my veins ran rank with abuse,
Breath reeked from the dead dry words that spilled
Over every other girl’s neck,
Over every other girl’s lips,
A neat and fancy fiction I buried myself in
Six sick feet under their benevolent belief
Because I felt less
To nothing.
I crawled inside a hot-boxed bottle comfortably
Hidden myself away from the unmuted madness manifesting memories
That I relived each night I stared into the dark,
That I tasted on every other lie;
Here I lie.
My rudely ignorant body is hollow
At the naïve request to revel with reveries of my heart,
Yet the pull tears worse through the chasm
Than through any suffering flesh…
And I can hear
Your echoing voice
Still in kiss, it keeps me still,
Because it could save me
From myself:
You.
...of Mephistopheles