wren

1/23/22

I met my true love in a room heavy with the heady scent of chamomile

Opium dreams swirled past her fingernails as she stretched out a hand to trace my cheek

A metal chair bit into my back as she stepped closer, red lips spreading past pearly teeth

She smelled of rust and roses, of copper dusted petals

She smelled of sin, of promises unspoken

 

I met my true love with my hands bound behind my back

I have never known fear like I did that day

An empty anticipation, an outstretched hand left untaken

I have never seen beauty like I did that day

As I watched her walk towards me, a polished bourbon silhouette

And she grinned at me, white teeth now cracked with rot

 

I met my true love high above stormy seas

Crimson skirts billowed around porcelain legs, fabric laced with liquid lullabies and indigo slumbers

She tasted the salty spray upon my blue-tinged cheeks, pressed her lips against my own

And enveloped my numb fingers in her warm embrace

whispering her name into my frostbitten ear

 

I met my true love as I lay on a polished wooden floor

Quiet tears tracked down my cheeks as I stared blankly up at her,

At her lips,

At her rotting teeth

There was no poetry

There were no flowers

There was only me, and the gentle creaking of the ceiling fan above

Just me, and the bottle of pills clutched loosely against my chest

Just me, and my one true love

Who kissed me goodnight as I lay on that cold wooden floor

And smiled warmly as I stood, wiped the tears from my face, replaced my pills upon the shelf

And told me she would see me next time

Before she disappeared.

  • Author: wren (Offline Offline)
  • Published: August 5th, 2022 01:00
  • Comment from author about the poem: My romanticization of suicide and mental illness and my inability to stop
  • Category: Unclassified
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