It's a drunk confession.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for staining your rose tinted cheeks with the colors of defeat and I know I stained your glass room walls with dust and dirt and trailed your roadmap with bare feet, imprinted a haggard and half rotten human being in you. Sometimes and of all the times it is you and only you, a bearer of Nationwide secrets hallmarked like pure rose gold, I hold you in my hands and crush you with my knees. All the way up to the first day we meet, always. Eulogies caper in my scintillating veins and the springs of my bed beg me to leave it all alone because it is tired of bleeding and collecting pearls and jewels of anxiety. It is tired of collecting paper printed knifes buried in my chest only to realize that they're even more real than my entire being. It is tired of having to live in a brick building kiln only to find out that it is nothing more than dead poetry.
How is it you sacrifice yourself on the altar of the living like a goat ever so beautifully? Aren't you tired of the frozen lakes alongside the graveyards of dead children?
I'm neither a dreamer nor a sadist
I'm neither pale nor thunder
I'm neither me nor you.
I'm a boat sailing in the dead sea,
A mirage huddled in the corner of the bustling streets,
A woollen sock lying under the bed of a childhood nightmare.
How is it that the hemlock tree dances so gracefully,
Or the crows coo so lowly,
Or the earth, ever so thirsty,
And me, wanting to be everything else but me.
How do you do it every single time embracing me with daggers in your chest?
You're still ever so hopelessly romantic....oh dear December! You managed to give birth to my first love.
How do you manage to bring the Satan out of a 17 year old fairy tale?
And why...why do you bring so many new beginnings?
It is not your fault to be you and neither it is me. Sometimes you bring in the hearth of broken dreams and sometimes you brake vases with no flowers in them. Sometimes you bring hope like a brand new Louis Vuitton handbag and the next day snatch it away for insufficient funds. I'm tired december and I know so are you. Being in a relationship as brittle as the bones of the baby, is hard. So hard sometimes you want to simply die. We've seen what the eyes could barely register, we've heard what the ears are afraid to and have felt what nothingness feels like. We've seen the azure paradise crumbling in the sands of time and we've seen time pass and all we do is remember.
So December, I hate you, but even more than that I love you, like the rare forgotten black roses of Turkey
I love you even more than death loves me.
I love you for revealing your scars with me
And furthermore for accepting me even though you don't know who am I.