Connor

i.

The word linger tastes disgusting.

It slides across my tongue like regret.

It sits there shameful, like not yet.

Think of all the words you could have said.

Wash them around your mouth and spit them out.

Bitterness is my favourite flavour.

We waste nights full of mourning and miss out on the magic.

How tragic, to live without tasting what it means to be alive.

ii.

I built a shrine in my mind that I visit some nights, as I kneel beneath the judgment of the moon.

And those eyes look upon me as wounds.

My sleep is haunted by their weeping.

This gloom is my cathedral, where I am redeemed.

Sometimes I still pray, as if the words will wash me clean.

As if words could make anything better.

This darkness where the demons dwell.

Where the sorrow settles.

Like dust in a tomb.

Old books on a shelf.

The faded hopes of a fool…

This is where I find myself.

iii.

I am a grudge held against my own being.

I am to blame for the darkness that hides me.

My hopes were relics that rust in the rain, skin found beneath a corpse’s fingernails.

I am haunted by everyone I’ve failed.