She turned her face,
smooth as the moon’s cold arc,
away from the storm in my arms,
the tempest she refused to see.
The scars climbed my skin—
rungs on a ladder of grief,
each carved line a scream
swallowed by the vast, uncaring sky.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she said,
her voice, brittle as dry reeds,
fragile in its tight restraint.
The bitter breath of black coffee,
the smoky veil of cigarettes,
stood between us,
a wall, a barrier of indifference.
But I,
I called to life the crimson river,
its rush fierce, its truth undeniable.
Words failed where the blade did not,
its edge a preacher, sharp and sure.
Joy, sorrow, despair—
all bled the same,
their stories painted on my skin.
Then came the pills,
like stones pressing the ocean floor.
Heavy salvation, they dragged me deep,
into waters where I was no one—
a shadow bloated with silence.
Dreams came, sharp as talons,
tearing through the darkened halls
of my restless soul.
“You’re nothing now,” she said,
her words a whip with pity’s sting.
“No one will love what you’ve become.”
But oh, the demons loved me well,
their hunger unyielding,
their feast endless.
They claimed my broken pieces,
traded one vice for another,
devoured the echoes of who I was.
And now, she is quiet.
The night stretches on, long and lean,
its silence a river where I wade alone,
listening to the hollow song
of their eternal feast.
