i stayed as long as i could.

i left the light on so you wouldn’t stumble
in the hoarded darkness.
i checked at 2:13 and your familiar warmth
was not to be found.
at 5:16 i heard noises but
it wasn’t you.
at 6:42 i looked out the window and
the ghost of your car was parked there
where it was supposed to be.
at 8:06 i realized that
you weren’t coming home.
maybe i got lazy in love
and swept some things under the rug
but i never wanted this,
and i don’t think you did either.
where do we go from here?
honey, i’ve dreamt of a thousand ways to die
but each time i was by your side…
i couldn’t imagine anything greater.
for now, though, life presides and must survive.
we’ve weathered through worse;
am i naive in thinking we can make it
through this, too?
i know i’m a fucking monster and
you’re battling your own
but together we’re better
than each of us, alone.

Maybe This Time

She slit sweet symphonies into her abused body to the tune of a cacophony of voices mingling in her head. It was forced and deliberate but always methodical and planned to a disturbing precision. The thing that pissed me off most was the utter disregard for her sacred palace; graffiti covered the pristine walls, and yet each time the deep, true care and concern shown after the deed was done was absolutely mind-blowing. She attempted to wash away her rash inequities and cleanse her darkest sins with water imbued with crystalline tears. Her sorrow and rage matched none in ferocious intensity and I couldn’t help but admire her maniacal tendencies.
I can’t say I’ve ever agreed with her methods of practice, but there they were. From time to time I wondered how much more of this purging flagellation I could stand to witness, but something about her kept me by her side. Her problem was that she was a pretty fucking terrible person in darkened corners of rooms, secreted from society.
She was a multifaceted glorified con-artist and could fool anyone she met into sweet sedation; her words like morphine falling from parted lips, and there was always someone willing to take the drip. She knew that she’d become everything she said she never would, but her double life was so confused and contorted that knowledge of this principle did naught for those around her. They stayed dangling from her fattened finger like semi-prized possessions and ill-forgotten trophies.
Though, absolutely no one disdained her more than she herself.
Her punishment came in the form of self-inflicted wounds and getting caught by those she conned. She couldn’t stop even if she wanted to and… I know she wanted to.
She whispered crazed conspiracy theories and spouted diatribes of justice while I nodded, half-listening, half just watching her lips move. The lies and embellishments flowed from within as naturally as mechanical deforestation, except she was the very machination of her own demise.
Once I found her lying prostrate, clutching her accident; an unplanned act of violence against herself… and I’ve never seen her so vulnerable or pitiful. Her animalistic qualities shone as I cautiously reached out to pet her, wary of the rabid nature of such frightened, wounded animals. She nuzzled against my touch and I thought, maybe, I could get used to this. Again.