It still hurts.
I still get the itch.
To drag sharp objects across my flesh.
To penetrate this body.
For the breaking of an impenetrable trust.
To drain myself of this tainted life-force.
Sometimes I find myself smiling.
Future endeavors glinting off the sun-drenched pavement I saunter…
…then I remember seeing the images of you.
In contented poses.
Bearing your all to derisive eyes.
As I lay in a pool of my indignity.
My own seditious disease.
Many miles away.
Begging for a sign…a lifeline.
your line was tied up with another.
And you couldn’t see me.
I grow bilious at the replaying of this event.
Nausea not an aid in the ailment of this heartache.
So I cut deeper into myself.
So I could make myself cold.
The thrust of the sword through my back,
was the trust I instilled in your image.
And now I find it hard to speak your name at times.
It’s sometimes foreign.
Akin to a dead language lost through the ages of perdition.
But with time there will arise a sedation of the seas.
A cooling of the gales amidst my discomfort.
Where your slathered image of ill-repose will gather dust and amnesia.
It is here I can dispose of the sword obtruding through my back.
And hang the new days of joyous junctures upon its handle.