Friday, January 18, 2013
Lipstick red roses scattered across a pristine bed.
Carefully crafted make-up streaking recklessly over flushed cheeks.
Photographs of who we used to be smile from gilded frames.
The best laid plans of mice and men gone awry. Again.
And my heart song breaks--crackles and sighs into somber silence. It spins on a ghostly record player. It whispers a death gasp, faint, but serene.
The constant hush unnerves me..
It's soft on the delicately scented pillows. It's softer still in the hollow of my neck. Not that you care. Not that you remember.
It's funny how the pills somehow dull the senses. My nails gleam brightly against the bottle.
My heart beats wildly. Pounds in my ears. Its the only sound to drown the pain.
Mascara tears. Perfume. And love.
Please tell me there was love. Broken and imperfect, but still love, yes?
I look to the ceiling for sacred answers. But it's just a ceiling. What can drywall say that hasn't already been spewed and dissected?
My eyelids weight me down so I close them.
My heart song skips. Still the record spins. The turntable hums. Its just breath now. A prayer unanswered.
Maybe I'll just sleep. Sleep to evade. Sleep dream. Dream of heart songs that ring strong and clear. Or maybe not...maybe I'm not that naive anymore.
The bottle slips from my grasp.
Pills scatter across the floor.
The record slows.