Lilith’ Lounge

I wish it was you. i wish i would’ve turned around to see your face, my name escaping your lips.

Even then, the consonants and vowels of my name sounding out from your teeth and tongue isnt enough. It’s not enough to rebuild what is wrecked.

I let you in. you entered my home with permission. Yet you still tore it all apart when there was nothing left for you. You took and took until you couldnt.

You tore through the drywall right to the supporting beams. You tore one down, took its place. Then when you got bored you let it crumble. You let it buckle in, damning the entire thing to rubble

Grief, she is the constant of life. She is the old lady on the park bench, feeding the ducks. She is the baby just born. She is the absence of a loved one. She is the final toll of the bell. She is neither friend nor enemy. she is simply a shoulder to cry on, and someone to talk to.

Grief is not just the burden of love, she is fervent proof that love ran deep. As love should not be shunned, neither should love. she shall be accepted in, a guest until she must be there for another griever. love and grief are sisters, and i implore you to let them into your heart and soul.

why was she better than me? i gave you everything. i would have lit myself aflame with Greek fire if you so pleased.

yet you turn to her.

you creeped into my soul, you infected me with this rot. you infected my very being with a hurt that tears me apart. A death of love i could have never seen being caused by you.

i suppose like wood feeds a flame, you have burned a scar into what was left of my wilted heart. may you have my mark burned into you as well.

you share his face, his name, but you are not him. you walk around, a desecrated grave of him. just like the stone rememberance of him, you offer no warmth in your eyes and no mercy in your actions.

the foliage must have seeped in and taken over, growing something- someone else in his place. the man i loved is dead, as his killer invades his own body claiming the identity of the host.

Lover, Is it because i was left to dry? My outer shell is hardened and hard to work with, i know. However, i promise all i need is some softening, warmth and water.

Lover, you were so proud to work with my clay once, so proud to run your hands over me and call me your masterpiece. You sculpt something else now. Another project.

You sculpt her.

I watch as you do. You pour your blood, sweat and tears into her making process. You pay so much attention to every detail in her. You fired her, glazed her with such concentration. Is she your masterpiece now? You never spent such time with me. My lover, my sculptor, my devoted one, why am i no longer your muse? Why have you abandoned me so? Even if you did fire me, would it be so you could erase each place you so carefully caressed me, to forget it all? Would it be to permanently etch the mistakes you made in me as a reminder that you could do better? Do i serve as a statue of shame to you?