I wrote this poem a few days ago and extended it an hour ago and it somehow ended up like this.
The pointed shards of his scattered heart punctured her skin and her soul, everyday.
Self inflicted pain was her forte, and cruelty a hobby of his.
They lived in a home built from guilt and slept on a bed forged from cold, cold steel.
Denial was their love child.
They fed it their hopes and cooed it a lullaby of lies.
Bourbon and rage.
Bruises and apologies.
Rinse and repeat.
Immaculate drawing rooms and immaculately repressed screams.
He was redemption and salvation and she was quick, bitter forgiveness.
They existed among lipstick stains, lingering cologne and shame.
Their gnarled hands interlaced firmly.
I would like to thank you for reading through this post.
Until We Meet Again