My demons and I are twin flames
One and the same
Light flickers off the dark eyes.
They say the eyes are the window to the soul,
but I’m not sure that’s a good thing.
My irises are empty, dark.
The light has gone out.
Occasionally there’s a flash,
a lightning bolt rippling across the pupil
and fading at the whites of my eyes.
Anger, happiness—
just as fleeting as the wisp of smoke
following the extinguishing fire.
The irony is overwhelming.
As smoke fills the house
I’m suffocating.
My demons breathing death into my lungs
and pouring ash into my veins
My heart beats slowly,
Slower and slower until each pound
is a dull thud dining through the empty chasm
that is my mind.
The dark, blue center resonating in my heart,
the crackling red and orange flames manifesting
in the decimating licks of my hands.
My wrists tell the story of a forest
long forgotten.
The vibrant hues gone with the smoke,
The tale of my strife whisked away as the
triviality I know it to be.
The scars of charred wood forgotten.
Trash
Unimportant.
Why are the broken things so lost?
Why are they scorned?
Why is the girl screaming in the middle of a forest fire ‘crazy?’
They think they understand,
but they don’t.
They don’t see the smoke swirling, lingering in the air the way you do.
They don’t feel the seared skin, bubbled like armored bark.
It covers the places you need most.
Caking your heart.
Smothering your lungs.
You swear to god you can’t breathe.
“Please, please,” you beg.
Opening air vents on your skin,
blackening and bruising the porcelain shell
you promised so many times to protect.
You promised, they promised.
Broken vows to match the broken girl
And so our “gothic fiction” comes to an end
Scorned as the story they shy from
The nonfiction narrative you know it to be
Burned, locked away in the battered safe of your heart.
Condemned to never find resolution.
Forgotten.