Comatose.

Rodents scale these very walls,
they shuffle through each and every room.
They re-enact a broken past,
and they shit on the floor.
The very floor that held us directly above hell.
Thats where the anger came from.
It flooded us from below.
We tried containing it with bottles,
but how daft to assume that glass could hold anything but water.
Our hair caught fire first.
And we ran around like madmen,
trying to douse a flame
fueled only by boiling blood.

It was the perfect plot.
The utmost prime excuse to flee each other.
Because after so much passion,
gasoline ran through our veins.
And how we drenched those halls.
The very halls we skated across
with worn out socks and blissful grins upon our faces.
We used to glide over the splinters.
Now they litter our ruined palace,
and neither of us can step a foot across that threshold.

The very threshold you swore to carry me over.
As you swept me off my feet
and whispered make believe things.

But, oh. How you DID make me believe.

How I hung on to every beautiful word
that danced from your fatally beautiful lips.
The very lips that grew mute
as she cast those stones at my scarred skin.
As she laughed and mocked my bed of shattered glass.
The very bed of which I chose to lay.
The very bed of what could have been my grave.
But I am only comatose, and I will rise with the next full moon.