Funereal

muse

The very strokes that painted your praises are now writing blasphemies.

Your favourite colour is now a beast that I wish to put down, and it hurts because it's my favourite, too.

Piano keys are no longer creating melodies. They're playing severed sevenths and the half steps are almost as off as the steps you took into my living room. The notes you played now resonate in my brain, and I play them every night before I go to bed, but now I change the words that you sang and aim them at you. There is no trigger warning. There is no safety feature. Is it odd that I sanitize the black and white whenever I play your song?

The tattoo on your wrist mirrors the slits I'm willing to make on your throat. You had a blood kink, right? Your deepest, darkest secrets are hidden within my sentences, and you'll know exactly who you are because we're the only ones who know about them.

There are no mind games anymore because my life isn't a game. There is only anger and manipulation and hurt. I am angry and hurt, and I will do whatever it takes to make you feel the way I feel. So call me crazy. Call me abusive. Call me manipulative. I am all of those things. You do not get to whip up a delicious, poisoned concoction and not expect to have a taste. I will spoon-feed you the nights of anxious pacing and shove the forkfuls of dry conversations while helping you wash it down with gallons of salty tears. There is no dessert because you stopped being sweet the moment you got me.

Your illnesses do not override mine. I am not cured because you're crazy, too. You do not get to make me feel bad about things I can not help, and then claim that you treat me like this because you absolutely must.

Your name is a direction I never travel anymore, and I swear I will take the long way home if it means that I never have to see you again.

All my life I wondered why I never drank enough water, and maybe it's because you were all I needed to keep me alive. A lake and a well; an abundance of cooling liquid and my own personal supply. When you left, I lost the ability to cry, not because I wasn't sad, but rather, dehydrated.