Unbroken • Poetry

IX

I stare down at that pitiful face
Full of so much unrequited love
In comparison to her I am a disgrace
When I'm not that much different from everyone else

My sister, a halo surrounding her golden curls
Collapsed on the floor where she belongs
But even in death, those innocent swirls
Of blood mark her out as a white and pure angel.

I spit on her face and stamp on her hand
I feel the delicate bones shatter beneath my heel
Her sheer perfection is more than I can stand
Pushing me into the shadow whilst she bathed in light.

Her pure white dress is spread behind her back
Folds of material soft by her sides
Like little feathers, tainted by blood from white to black
Even in death she lays with an angel's wings.

As children our fates were intertwined
And this I miss, bitterly reminisce
How she went on and left me behind
How she went on and forgot about me.

It had been a rather simple ordeal
Coated in sugar and garnished with a smile
But I struggle to distinguish what is real
From what I imagine in that mind of mine.

I had spent hours and hours polishing that knife
Until it I could see my reflection in its cunning blade
I held that handle and took her life
And I could see that light flash in it as she died.

I stare down, pensive, at that knife now
How the silver surface catches the light
Like the light of heaven shines on it now
An instrument of death disguised in pure clothing.

And so I turn it on myself
The glimmering silver blade, once beautiful
Still beautiful as it turn it on myself
And as the blood,
Black like my soul,
Leaks out,
-
I think, I am an angel.
-
I slip away.

Autumn 2015

none of this is grounded in any version of fact--my inner Poe got a little excited in 2015, methinks