I’ve not tasted poison sweeter,
Than his name upon my lips,
My eyes, they know a secret,
That when I sleep I dream of his.
From tongue to fingertips,
My control is but consumed,
If arsenic was his love,
I’d have drank the bottle through.
My mind, it screams in madness,
As my heart yells out in pain,
This pull toward him collapses,
My every artery and vein.
For just one thought to have him,
Splits me clean through at the seams,
My ribs cracked open, heart exposed,
Parts he was never meant to see.
Black paint fills the corner,
Of a small forgotten room,
Scattered, shattered glass around,
To ensure not many will pass through.
No wind to sway the curtains,
Of the windows, busted out,
A musty stench sweeps over,
Like an old, abandoned house.
The once fresh hardwood floors,
Now creak with age and use,
Stained with cold neglect,
An irrevocable, stolen youth.
Concealed beneath a worn, silk sheet,
A record player hums,
Spinning, skipping, static noise,
The music now unsung.
This is but a single space,
In an expansive, mansion still,
Each room a story, dark and light,
Some you’ve not seen and never will.
Tonight I lay among the dust,
Of my record room, confined,
Comfort in the peeling paint,
In this corner of my mind.