Quick Fix

Looking for a quick fix from your crucifix, you drive another nail into your fist, like a catalyst for another trail on your list of flings and trysts, of things to fail and wrists to slit, while you sit and wonder if you fit, if this is it and all that you have left is the theft of your heartache that’s ready to break and shake all that you make from the meager dealings of your eager feelings that you can never seem to control as you take on a role that takes on a toll that won’t slow, or flow, and it grows and blows out of proportion with all the distortion from the spear in your ribcage that puts you centerstage with the pain that leaks from the rain that reeks of the impulsion of all your convulsions, every time you cry out without thought for you to rot away with the light of day, for someone to stay by your side before the end of your ride for you to confide

about how all your highs subside and you fall a little further into the murder of your trust in the rust that hangs over your chest, the lust that heaves your breast and leaves you without rest with a quest to smear your lips with hips and fingertips on the smoothest skin made of sin and sanity, all for your vanity and valiant endeavors that you fail to sever from hands that only want to suffocate the breath from your lungs to keep all of your songs unsung and dead on your tongue, so you can curl up in your corner and say you’re not at fault for the assault on the vault of all your dreams, even though they were already coming out at the seams, with the screams you muffle when you sleep, trying to keep the nightmares dark and deep, so that your days are less of a haze when you raise your head off your pillow, out of your bed from under the willow of your agonized slumber, in the umber of the choices you take and the voices you fake

to get through another hour without incident, without falling by accident while carrying the cross on your back and losing the friends that you lack, because all you remember is the crown on your head, cutting the flesh of your brow and the memory of your vows to people you say matter more to you than death, because you don’t believe that you’ll be grieved, despite the crushed eyes that watch all of your lies unfold, grow old, go cold as you curse the clouds for the shrouds they put over your sun, leaving you to run from your fears, seething for years, behind your hot tears that only leave more ice to build, already filled and chilled with your sadness, your barely concealed madness from the thirst of that very first burst of elation, lacking in elaboration but for that fleeting glimmer of hope that you could cope without bleeding your veins out, if you could just hold on to me a little longer.

Just a little longer.

Resterais-tu encore un peu?

~Noct…………………