Black Friday 

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Each empty bottle of beer that sits on your desk is an empty dream that has since popped inside your black’d out head. Each needle that digs deep into the veins of those waiting for you on the streets outside sings your name in a way you wish it wouldn’t. If a star is mother, than father is a black hole hiding out of sight and ready to destroy whenever it so desires. Did he hit you with just his knuckles, or did he wrap that belt of his around them first just to make things that bit more interesting? When he squeezed your throat until those eyes of yours begun to spin like egg-white marbles, did he kiss you on the lips and apologise, or did he open your legs and do his thing? It’s not for me to say, but the truth of your fury came from somewhere, and it certainly wasn’t from me. When you dip your toes into those pools of oil that somehow look like blood beneath the almost full moon, do you ever wish things were over, or do you enjoy sticking around? When you catch sight of your reflection do you see something stained and ugly, or do you smile because you survived and that despite it all you’re still beautiful? Please tell me, because I’d like to know. Knowing things makes me happy, and knowing a secret makes me happy that little bit more in a world that can be so shitty. So tell me as many as you can, and I promise to be around whenever you need someone to listen. But saying that, I get so lost inside my head that time just goes by without even registering. It could be days, or maybe even weeks until I come down from the clouds, and even then I’m not myself until a long soak in the bath followed by a bottle of wine and a cigarrete even though I know it’s such a dirty habit. But so is picking your nose, and so is masturbating in public toilets, and so is spitting on the sidewalk. In England we say pavement, but that term has always bored me. Sidewalk is more flowing- more American. So yeah, maybe when you next feel sad just glide down the sidewalk so your feet don’t touch the ground while all the time making sure to reach up to the sky so I can feel you saying hello as I play with the angels until it’s time to go home.

 

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com 


6 replies »

  1. it’s strange but this reminds me of a particular song: prelude no. 4 in e minor (op. 28, no.4) by chopin
    I loved this 🙂

  2. Beautifully written the way you go from so intense and brutal to reflective. A camera lens sharpening and then pulling back. A true skill. I get so very lost inside my head. Days and weeks really do vanish.

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