Chapter Text
I am left counting the days.
I am left unwinding the threads of fate - looking for you in the inpenetrable mist
The questions burning in my throat - your silence on the other end -
A call unanswered - a call and no one went. (Stumbling and wailing - for minutes on end- then silence)
Shaking I endure the time passing, day by day -
I endure the light shining - the mould not drying, solid as fresh clay.
The silence is ringing with your absence - so forced.
The walls come crowding in - a storm untold.
Erupting in the future - so sure of itself. A silence that is haunting. (A fissur in the matter of flesh so taunting).
They said the pain would subdue - they promised it.
They said I’d detest your face through half of it -
How big is the in between - how hollow the “rest” -
How much time will pass until i feel like a person again -
Someone to laugh, someone to wake up without this pressure behind my eyes? (A person in all its right. A person whole, unmarred by your fright)
A prison of thought - something so easily changed -
The cage doors open like fortresses claimed.
You came back then you left -
Where did you go, when I had to let go? When I assumed to take away my touch?
When the noises came and you stilled frantically in my embrace - my watch?
Where did you go? Where did you stray?
Where did you dump my process on your way?
(Mine. Mine until my dying day????)
I would like it back?
Coffin nails - and all that.
-
You promised them to me -
To bury our love -
With your logical arguments - your carefully curated reason - the silence inbetween - your inability to see the treason - your double standard that you accused me of - the one you actually lived.
“Let’s burry it all. Let’s find the way with the least resistance- I don’t choose you. I will never choose you.” (Your words, not mine - not in a million years - where I saw confusion - hurt, treason - you saw an end - a love to you, so easily spent)
Coffin nails. And a collar around your neck.
The one you eye warily now, after I pointed it out to you. That fact. It’s meaning. The one you didn’t acknowledge like everything else.
Coffin nails, painfully silver - like the twinkle in your eyes - when you LOOKED at me.
Saw me - raw. No clothes, no words, a considerable distance.
(Because you followed where I went - left the door soooo open. So open that I had to notice -
A plea if anything else. An unwillingness without any sense)
Coffin nails when you dug your fingers into my back - squeezed me so tight that in your grasp I went slack.
Coffin nails, when you lied through your teeth - hoping, praying, wishing I wouldn’t notice like I always do - like I did.
Coffin nails when the door fell to a close and your red rimmed eyes went unfocused for the fracture of a second. The one I felt deep in my bones, beneath all its matter.
Coffin nails as I convince myself that one day I’ll find someone better.
Coffin nails as a way of healing. A box stored so wrapped tight - unburned and protected - slivers of history obscured from the light.
Coff- (where is your resistance now? Where are the tears ? Where is your urge to get picked up again, when you fall? Where do the lies lead to? How do you keep standing all so tall?)
You’re not even aware - I should not be asking those questions of you -
The greatest of manipulators - a natural - blissfully unaware
Blameless and scared.
Hidden and feared- handing out coffin nails like an extinct currency - (one of the dead - like drachmas- for a decade in nobodies’ hand)
-
Yet logic demands - your master in every regard -
It demands
A coffin nailed shut -
Irrevocably buried.
Emotions guiding the hammer as it goes down and down and down again - with every single metal piece you hand out carelessly
It demands
The coffin to get shut.
Down.
And burried.
6 feet deep.
Unreachable-
We will not wake the dead.
A coffin nailed shut - eventually.
So many nails as the time passes.
You handing them out like tokens of guilt - unaware.
There is a small slip to the pryer
There is a tiny gap about to get sealed - there are just so many centimetres left of unnailed margin space - the corpse convulsing (nightmares shed - like skin - of a serpent- glistening red - the orange to my yellow - we won’t wake the dead)
A macabre scene - stretched out unnoticed
So far from the market where they fabricate unholy silver.
Shut nonetheless as the month dies and gets reborn again to another shape - equally enthralling and beautiful beyond your comprehension. (Are we still on the lookout for fate?)
Coffin nails - until the grave is sealed. Until there is nothing lively stirring in your makeshift cage.
And the story starts anew. (The characters filled with rage)
Until memories get erased.
Until spring is near. (Until the dead - burried and decayed)
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A grave. Settled at the edge of the yard. Not a single dried flower left on its marble stone.
Just flyaways of ash - of memory burned and life pulsing on the shore.
The gardeners come and go - brush away the dust, the nonexistent residue of flower petals.
They are careless that way.
Nobody comes to visit anyway.
Not a single soul remembers.
Neither does the chairman.
A grave payed for decades to come - no name left on the recipe- not a hint of farewell.
An obligation to the dead.
A task to attend to - by the rest. (Just one of too many deeds)
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You handed them out like candy.
Handed the nails like coins to a man in need-
Tears of guilt lining your face. You looked so young then. Back then. When the corpse was no corpse at all. When the body was still fighting toxins on an alarming speed with half its power - declaring poison unworthy of its death - stating that anything could kill, with the wrong intent. Reasoning and bargaining - and pleaing at the end.
A raspy voice barely above a whisper - grinning wide with half its face. Fighting and struggling and turning to the windows, (from its grave). Watching the sunrise- the sunset. Orange and bright.
Coffin nails where the eye can see. No will to survive - unresponsive on the other side. (The earth, the moon the sea)
Thrashing and turning - active and bright.
The love died.
Slowly and cruel.
Replaced by a humanoid.
Easier to handle - simple to understand. Limitless in its boundaries. (In the end deemed carelessly dull)
Erased and bitter. Half its face still pulled into a bold smile. A cruel smirk. Even in death glows that half blindingly bright.
That night the love finally died.
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A grave at the edge of a Forrest - surrounded by light -
Too many clouds above, too many trees covering tight.
Impossibly orange at whatever time -
Avoided by strangers - mourners - loved ones.
Solitary in its dime.
-
Coffin nails handed out at the market wherever I go. The mourners crowding from here and fro.
So many people - not a single one carrying your face.
Where are you in all this space -?
The one that I lend you?
The one you never returned? (Where is now, your grace?)
So scared - casually cruel in all your burns - while my body flayed to crisps of ashes -
They don’t expect the invisible as one who thrashes.
Coffin nails
Collected in my palm
So many at this point that they melt to a balm.
Something to steel my soul with.
Nowhere left to avoid this.
(someone better - a chant to the gods above - the unholy the whole- anyone at this point - I am ready for the one of your list)
-
And as the corpse decays - and I watch sunset shift into another of my dying days -
I laugh without sound - because at this grave - without witnesses -
Lost in the ground
The corpse still smiles at your absence - expecting nothing less.
It’s just one of your dances.
(Manipulations as you’d never call them - a heaven so foreign. So alluring and strange - left me as a prisoner at your hands.)
And as time will pass - I will show up less and less - passing time as you pass your days- unaware and careless
One month, two - a year - some time after that -
Coffin nails dropped like one of the many dead-
My flowers carried away by the wind and gardeners ready to unwind -
Until, when you finally show - your face, the one of a necromancer, pulled into sorrow -
There is nothing left to resurrect - nothing to discuss.
A grave abandoned - after all - what is the matter - what is all the fuss?
(Too late. Too little. Just too little too late as always.)
R.J.L