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The sick stench of rot
Permeates from my soul,
Like the spilled glass of juice
Across the tiles this morning.
It seeps into every crevasse,
Every wooden frame,
Until it’s made a home in my life.
Of course, life isn’t always this way.
There are sunny days;
Laughing friends;
Happy thoughts.
But come the pale moon rise,
I’ll find myself shielded
Inside my room.
My fortress of solitude,
Impregnable,
But lonely.
Is it really a surprise
That my sheets are stained
With the faded remnants of blood;
Grown so old
That they look like the brown sores
From a festering spider bite?
And the knife hangs
From my desk table,
As a reminder of my sins;
Past,
And future.
The quiet piano music,
Sullen and defiant,
Reminds me there’s so much to live for,
Yet I cannot grasp it.
I sit there. Empty
Like a void,
Silent, quiet, and irrelevant.
And I just
And I just
And I just…
I just don’t want to be alone.
Not again,
Not anymore.
The ruthless onslaught
Of the rain’s downpour
Hammers my heart
Into the ground,
But I know
She’ll never come around.
——
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Published by Cassady O'Reilly-Hahn
6 years ago 
