Musings of a melancholic.

‘…I’m the hero of this story, I don’t need to be saved…’ – Regina Spektor.

Give me life.

Leave me out in the cold and watch in disinterest as my blood freezes over.

Drag my carcass along these crowded streets, I am your trophy, your conquest, the spoils of your war with yourself.

Let my tears wash the dust off your feet from your sojourns to lay with your other lovers.

Let my pain be the stole you drape over your pride. Coax it out of me, weave it into your ornate tapestry.

This path is so lonely and the crumbs you leave for me to follow are so few and far between, I grow faint from wanting you.

Bleed me into your chalice, take my blood willing poured out for your fascination, for all my other orifices have fed it and it stays unsated.

Seed me with your discord and let me wage war against myself, both factions eager to please your ever fickle whim.

You know how I crave it, the shudder that runs through me when you smile, yet you make me fast, and offer frown after frown.

Stigmata, my wrists bear the marks of my devotion, dismissed with a flick of yours.

The corners of this room are too small, I cannot crawl in and hide from you and this dark that threatens to swallow me.

Cowed and disgraced, with ashen head, I come again to worship at the altar, to abase myself for your merriment.

Pilgrimages to the height of devotion, tumbling down in an avalanche of rejection. Delusional, I dust my bloody knees and hands, and begin the crawl again.

Memories are fickle things, you can’t choose which ones stay bright and vibrant, and which ones fade away.

Suppress your childhood with a deviant youth, wipe the slate clean, discard old pictures, burn them in a pile and start again.

Crawl into your pod with gangly legs and bug eyes, and crawl out, beautiful, the past is forgotten once you’re beautiful.

Win your battles with a smile and legs spread apart, but never stand up for they will see the welts and the ridges the unforgiving earth has scored on your back.

Fall in love with a shaman, lay down with a mystic, cut out your heart and offer it freely, for it will be gone by the morning anyway.

Stood still waiting for love to come and swoop me off my feet. But my soles grew roots and sank into the earth. My bones calcified and my skin cracked, and now I watch silently. This is how trees are born.

She offered her veil, peeled it off her back and placed it in my hands, but alas her eyes welled with tears, for it was a shroud.

And I sat and listened as you regaled tales of you and your others and I wilted like a wallflower behind my smile.

You trapped me, a painting in your cave, covered in dust, never touched only admired. And your hands found their way into the orifices of bazaar whores.

I wonder why I bother, the door is closed, but I still bang with now bloodied hands, and plead for entry.

While I was asleep the caravan moved on, I awoke to sand and the desert wind. It swept away your footprints, prevented me from following

Arms twisted around each other as my body sways in time to the discordant drums. This voice calls to the wild within me.

One more time, and I’ll succumb to you sweet slumber…

(Photo credits : @weird_oo)

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