Hate easily befits the void created by love. Easily. Like it was one and the same being.
She smiled the same infectious smile. While her heart was tattered into pieces. She smiled and it hurt just the same, like when she cried at night.
Life. Irony. Sadist.
Laugh at her timidity.
Laugh at her brave facade.
Because you see her soul through her eyes.
You watch with lecherous laughter at the storm they reflect.
But it’s not you she’s afraid off.
She’s frightened of her own masochism.
Her own strength makes her weak.
Dark are our ways. The moon in our hearts. We pull the tides of hate. We let it tear us apart.
We steal a sinful glance, we glutton for that love. We hold the sands of time, in the bosom of our hearts.
We cross the rivers wild, we call forth its fury. We let it drown us deep, the treasure of misery.
We are stingy and we fight, we hold on tight. We punish ourselves so, every day more so at night.
We live by faith. We die by love. We grew up to believe time health. But it also stealth all.
So why wait to end it all? Why not start now? To oneself stay true?
There’s no hope for the dead.
I’m the dark shade of blue. I’m the dark shade of blue.
She was accustomed to the routine. Meet. Muse. Misery. It was as though the story was written once. Relived a thousand times over.
She was prepared for the fateful day. She was armed with tears and a brave heart. She would use it when her knees felt weak. She would use it when the shadows of her soul were dark and cloudy. She would use them against her own will. She would use them to thrive. She would use them to smile. She would use them to create a cocoon. She would use them to create a fortress. She would use them to hurt, herself and others. She would use it when history repeated itself. Yet again.
Burnt ashes in the tray. Crumpled papers thrown in the air. Warmth on her cheeks. It took courage and a lot of Bourbon that night. For her to gather up all the strength her weak heart could shelter. She knew it had to be done. Because something’s just must. A necessity. Like breath for life.
She penned her story that midnight hour. It was called ‘Goodbye’.
She was accustomed to reliving the story over and over again. She looked forward to the routine.
Meet. Muse. Misery.
It was as though the story was written once.
Relived a thousand times over.