Old Devils

familygathering

 

Lovers as moths around the light bulb and lovers as empty soda cans and the stains of dead gods smeared upon sunless skies. Lovers as lost highways and dust particles that circle plastic leaves on plastic trees that adorn your local doctor’s surgery, the one you collect your mental pills from. Lovers as the stains on your teeth and the stretch marks on your not so young skin and the moles and skin tags that make you frown and wish for the return of your younger self, the younger self that makes the you as you are now look so old and used up and just as generic as those you claim not to resemble in the slightest. There are blowjobs and handjobs and body parts that consist of atoms and tiny strings that snap and sing when you’re stood in line at your local grocery store foaming at the mouth while waiting to buy a lottery ticket so you can win and give up work and become a professional junkie. There are lovers as gravestones and damp carpets in damp bedrooms where mould is growing up the wall behind your favourite leather jacket, the one you haven’t worn since it started to look a little on the tight side. There are lovers you don’t speak of because their existence cuts you up, and even though you try to convince yourself otherwise, the lovers you keep close now are as loveless and as cheap and easy as those you find on TV. Yeah, those lovers, those lovers who are too weak to do it by themselves, and those lovers who pick and choose who to love next forgetting those that went before as if they only loved once. There are moths and old devils. They rattle and roll like the coins in your pocket and the bones of all your dead childhood pets that litter your damaged heart. They chase you through doors that won’t open, and they chase you through the steam that creeps around your ankles as you stagger through unlit streets lunging from one disaster to the next. Moths and old devils. Devils and old moths, peering at you from the foot of your bed as you scratch your skin and pull your hair out whispering his name until it becomes your own.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

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