Paint splattered like dying sobs across the wide emptiness,
Running away like ink from bloody fingertips.
It's close enough to midnight not to matter
And these words are written with hands
Shaking from forced apathy.
A voice lingered,
It sounded like yours,
Or else it was the pages falling closed,
A regretful sigh in the early hours of the end of the world.
The television's on repeat; it's crying for help
And I thought it might have been you,
But it was the angels instead.
They circle like carrion
And steal all of what I wanted to tell you
About the meaningless feelings I've been having,
Replacing instead with the poignant:
The lie is beautiful, undeniable, evident
And so firmly established that questioning it
Would be the action of someone who cares.
The light is thick and liquid
And seeping into my veins in order to cut off circulation
To something that's supposed to be important,
But I've forgotten somewhere.
Somewhere in a place where the snow falls black,
The birds aren't flying
And you await with arms outstretched.
That place where I can breathe toxins and poisons and love.
Where I belong.
"I'm fine, but I wish I wasn't dying."