Clockwork

 

I emerge garbed in charcoal
To commentate a death
Of a being I no longer recognize
She is tarnished with Ravens’ blood
Although she is contaminated, her presence lingers
A ghost inhabits the air
One which haunts me endlessly
The scent of turmoil brings her to an existence
An earsplitting phantom who longs to be heard
I attempt to silence her
But her screeches transmute into monstrosities
They devour the room with every passing minute
Until I am the one who is thirsty for air
An infinite void, a being of my own creation
I am flustered, I am ashamed, I am angry
Angry because her only purpose was to endure pain
Ashamed because the click of the trigger did not phase her Flustered because I could not soothe her disembodied voice
She did not deserve this gloom as her deathbed
She was swallowed in pools of razor blades and ivory tinted pills She wanted a spotless sendoff
But there she lies in a bed of ashes
My hands tremble while my face goes merlot
A perfect occasion for her to arise
A bullet to the soul is all she craves
A permanent slumber
Yet even in her deathbed, she lies half awake
Her soul remains uneasy
And no matter how hard I try to make her vanish
She remains, as though she is a part of me
She is what glares back at me in my reflection
She is me in the foulest of my depression
If she vanishes than so shall I
And one thing that is certain, is that I do not want to die

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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