Mask the Pain.
Sitting on the bed. Quiet, just the tick of the clock.
She in her short shorts and singlet top.
The bed is unmade, the room is small.
No job, no love, nothing but the crack on the wall.
A bottle in her hand, there are more scattered around the floor.
The smell of power, is it the bitter fumes?
It is on his breath, but it is waning. No,
That smell is the lost chances, fading into the past.
The hand on her back, lukewarm and plain.
Her dependence is stronger, cancelling out whatever pain.
Does he feel it too, the pain?
A bottle in his hand, others on the floor.
Her back curled from the weight.
The fires she saw were those of her breath.
She inhaled.
Her eyes saw stars, but they weren't stars themselves.
Lights from a car burned themselves into her eyes.
Shut up in the boot, going fast.
Her friends and his screaming quietly into the delves of the dark.
Red eyes in the grey dawn.
It was always him, his touch perhaps.
It masked her daily pain.
Could he love her, what could she give?
He liked the bad girls.
Maybe now he did.
YOU ARE READING
Written Works of Abstract Art
RandomIf paintings can be abstract, so too can written words. Each new chapter is either a story, emotion or dream, conveyed either symbolically (with metaphors) or literally, in the case of a dream.
