dorian gray

Have you ever bled your soul to your bedroom walls
only to have them not reply, the lack of a humbling nod.
A thirst that I have bore for what feels like an eternity
is a dry rasping feeling on the back of my throat.
I’ve met the girls who move like silhouettes
along the back alleys of London’s streets.
They make me smile and warp my mind into thoughts;
thoughts like anchors that weigh me to the deepest depths.
I loved a girl and wrote for her my undying passion.
I loved a girl and concealed her from the public eye.
The ill-effect of effortless text on a background I’ve chosen
absent and lacking the true emotion that dulls my heart.
I can feel it sometimes rise to my throat
as if to pour out, stripping me of a self-inflicting burden.
With each time, my breathing gets a little coarser
my skin fades to a paler white and I’m left in dimmer light.
I can’t cough up the proper words to emphasize the organ
that gives me life and that hinders me with love.
I sometimes, find myself sitting and thinking
wading through a swamp, a thicket of troubles.
Troubles that I have manifested and cultivated
to lock me in the deepest jungles of exile.
I fall asleep to the warmth of my electric heater
somewhere between 20 and 30 degrees Celsius;
a poor substitute to arms of pure comfort.
The sun still thaws me sometimes whilst I walk
and see the beautiful faces of artistic perfection
strapped to a book bag, strapped to a boyfriend.
My fingers have lost their touch to a numbness
placing them on a window peering in to how I would want it.
I miss the anxiety, I miss the worrying
I have missed the stars straight out of the sky.
It’s time I caught up with my love
and it’s time to come in from the cold.

~ by Valentine Ink on June 16, 2008.