Footprints.
One and lonely.
Grass over my head, stars beneath my feet. The world is contorting, squeezing me into this blue, fuggy melancholy. Or maybe that’s the alcohol, poisoning my body cells one by one. Mud is splattered over my heart from where you left your footprint, all dainty and neat with the heel cracking through my breastplate. Did you mean to stamp there, or was it just a careless kick as I passed by you on your high horse?
He’s there now, too, all big smiles and awkward angles. His head is too high above the clouds that he can’t see you kicking his shins, trying to buckle him and trample on his heart. Inside my eyelids smoulders a permanent image of your lips on his, burned there by your own personal branding iron. You’ll throw him in the trash soon, and all the years his lungs slaved for you will come back on him. I wish I could pick him up and stick him back together when the time comes, but the way I love him is exactly the way he loves you. It’s neglected, lonely, and fruitless. There’s no hope, but that still doesn’t give you the right to taunt me with his affections.
So, nothing you can say can get these dirt stains off my jacket and no cream will make the bruise fade. If I’m smiling tomorrow, it’s a fucking miracle, but it’s a porcelain grin and it’s easily broken. If there’s one thing you could do to make amends it would be to stitch him up with your cold fingers, because right now he still has a hope of being saved. But me? I’m too far down the well for your overdue pity to catch up with me, and I’m not sure I want it to jump down.
He’s there now, too, all big smiles and awkward angles. His head is too high above the clouds that he can’t see you kicking his shins, trying to buckle him and trample on his heart. Inside my eyelids smoulders a permanent image of your lips on his, burned there by your own personal branding iron. You’ll throw him in the trash soon, and all the years his lungs slaved for you will come back on him. I wish I could pick him up and stick him back together when the time comes, but the way I love him is exactly the way he loves you. It’s neglected, lonely, and fruitless. There’s no hope, but that still doesn’t give you the right to taunt me with his affections.
So, nothing you can say can get these dirt stains off my jacket and no cream will make the bruise fade. If I’m smiling tomorrow, it’s a fucking miracle, but it’s a porcelain grin and it’s easily broken. If there’s one thing you could do to make amends it would be to stitch him up with your cold fingers, because right now he still has a hope of being saved. But me? I’m too far down the well for your overdue pity to catch up with me, and I’m not sure I want it to jump down.