The Mourning Times

Breathe

Hold

I need to clear my conscience. Step back, relax, and breathe, as if I weren't already. But, but this time I'll pay attention to it, close my eyes and peer into the darkness. Little floaters, remainders of the light left, flitter away with each sweep of my encased eyes. I can hear the pulling and pushing of my intestines and their grueling work. I listen to it, listen to the way I breathe. Out, and in. Out, and -. How long do you think I can hold my breath? I wish I could hold it longer, forever, but then I'd never die. And maybe that was the point.

Pigments

Words, language, speaking. All is just a stain of images on your breath, nothing but tainted air. I wash my clothes, over and over and over and over and over and over and over again my fingers are bleeding and they just color them deeper, thicker, but I rub, rub until every scrape of fabric is a painful intake of breath becuase I want to wash all of you away, all the fake smiles and fake laughter and fake love that you'd painted on my skin. I sleep in my blood and tears, and a constant reminder of your tinted breath.

Love

This is love, isn't it? You grasp me so firmly with your large, full hands. They won't understand, you know. Our life. Our love. Us. I don't think they get it. You kiss me pomegranite skin and burned marks of our devotion. I might cry, I might run, and if I can't, crawl, but in the end, I remember what you told me once before. This is because I love you. You don't want me to feel the pain of living. You know what it's like out there. You don't want the coldness that's crept into you to snuff me out, right? You come back so angry, so angry and so sad and I love you because you love me enough to hide me and keep me as your solace. I'm sorry I'm struggling. I'm sorry that I'm trying to scrape your hands off my neck. I'm sorry I'm kicking you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You're fading from me. You're fading from my vision and I'm so, so scared. This is because you love me, right?