This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.
The steam curls in the downlit beam like the fingers of cigarette smoke crawling their way into virgin lungs;
Like your lies crawled their way underneath my skin;
Like your venom crawled its way into my heart.
The motes of moisture push against each other like unruly teenagers in an ugly playground;
Like your words pushed my thoughts into a corner of darkness;
Like your laughter pushed my pain deeper.
I crouch under the steel rivets of water, that torment my soul like it needles burnt skin.
I claw at my arms with my hands like your hands clawed my spirit and broke it and snapped it and sandpapered the raw edges until the ribbons could bleed nothing more.
I am confounded by shuddering sobs of deep cold, from the ice spears of hate that you stabbed into my soul.
The showerhead mocks me, the image of you as you stood above me and laid me bare with your eyes.
Those eyes stripped me naked and spread my legs, lustily, greedily, secretly laughing at my core as the juices you called forth welcomed you hotly.
And those ice spears of hate came thundering down, shattering, splintering, tearing my flesh and ripping the soul from my being.
The motes are still dancing.
The tears follow the rivulet paths of the shower streams.
And still the pain eats away at what is left.
Empty silence engulfs my deadened soul, weighing down the nothingness that your lying maw left behind when it feasted on every delight I once hoped I had.
My eyes are swollen.
But my heart is not red raw, or black or broken or bruised or aching or forgotten.
Because all that is left is
Nothing.
This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.
The steam curls in the downlit beam like the fingers of cigarette smoke crawling their way into virgin lungs;
Like your lies crawled their way underneath my skin;
Like your venom crawled its way into my heart.
The motes of moisture push against each other like unruly teenagers in an ugly playground;
Like your words pushed my thoughts into a corner of darkness;
Like your laughter pushed my pain deeper.
I crouch under the steel rivets of water, that torment my soul like it needles burnt skin.
I claw at my arms with my hands like your hands clawed my spirit and broke it and snapped it and sandpapered the raw edges until the ribbons could bleed nothing more.
I am confounded by shuddering sobs of deep cold, from the ice spears of hate that you stabbed into my soul.
The showerhead mocks me, the image of you as you stood above me and laid me bare with your eyes.
Those eyes stripped me naked and spread my legs, lustily, greedily, secretly laughing at my core as the juices you called forth welcomed you hotly.
And those ice spears of hate came thundering down, shattering, splintering, tearing my flesh and ripping the soul from my being.
The motes are still dancing.
The tears follow the rivulet paths of the shower streams.
And still the pain eats away at what is left.
Empty silence engulfs my deadened soul, weighing down the nothingness that your lying maw left behind when it feasted on every delight I once hoped I had.
My eyes are swollen.
But my heart is not red raw, or black or broken or bruised or aching or forgotten.
Because all that is left is
Nothing.
This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.
