You've tasted the good parts of me and spit them out.
They were of no use anymore and
all you left me with was this black area that I tip-toe around.
I put on makeup, band aids, gauze and wrap,
but I'm always so careful not to touch it.
It makes me flinch with searing pain;
it would crumble my soul again with just a deep look in.
That soul I fought so **** hard to save,
but yet here I am:
staring
gazing
into the mirror all along the jagged edges of this hole.
I trace the mirror reflection of it with my fingers.
My angry fingers, bruised, red, cracked...
Fingers that would have never looked good in a ring from you.
Maybe just for tonight,
"Just for tonight." would be what an addict would say, I think with a laugh.
But maybe just for tonight, I'll dip in.
So I shut off my phone with sad, angry fingers
that would have never been beautiful.
I was beyond ready to be swallowed up.
Taking my ring finger,
the finger a ring would have lost shine to be on if someone had ever seen me that way,
and dip it in the liquid black abyss.
“If they tell you that she died of sleeping pills you must know that she died of a wasting grief, of a slow bleeding at the soul.”
― Clifford Odets
