Infatuated | #watty's2019

| part seven |

Evanescence.

And now she's lying here.

Skin pale

and

eyes sullen, almost

sunken into her face

Her fingers are bony,

nails like talons, coated in

dirt.

The scars on her wrists become more prominent now,

crimson zigzags cascading

from top to bottom,

blanketing her skin in

permanent

reminders.

I guess it doesn't matter now.

Now that her body is drained of life.

I didn't do this to her,

she did it to herself. 

I feel contempt at that moment,

as her viridescent eyes flutter shut

and her face relaxes.

She's fallen into a peaceful

                         slumber,

and it reminds me of the way she looked whenever

we were together,

intertwined as one.

In those moments

she was truly happy.

I had made her happy

                         at last.

Her lips are a grey colour,

like dishwater, chapped and thin.

I find myself fixating on her lips.

Those lips have lied for me,

for us.

They've kissed the tips of a thousand cigarettes and

been coated in cheap vodka and wine.

She is one of the unlucky ones.

But maybe that's a facade.

Because she broke free from the tendrils of my embrace

through the ending of a sickly forever,

that promised nothing but demise.

Because there truly is no escape

Once you've shaken hands with

                    the devil.

She traded a mundane depression

for an artificial happiness.

And now she is a mere

evanescence

of the person who was once

there.