literature

Delicate Gashes

Deviation Actions

miquluva-coia's avatar
Published:
390 Views

Literature Text

The sun set upon the saturation of my blood
Rich and dripping
Red anguish set upon cold broken skin
And this act was yours...
Delicate gashes.
Intricate destruction of the work of beauty that is me.

The dark is in its deepest metamorphosis
So deadly still, yet churning all around me.

You clung to my chest
Flesh wounds inflicted
By the sharp softness of your tongue
And you drank
Of every pure emotion I had to give
Drank my warmth until you could find no more…
Then disappeared in search of something richer
Leaving only the toxic suffocation of your memory

And here I lay on a barren earth
Paralyzed shards of pain
Never ending
Waiting
For the shiver that is my skin
And the lifeless black that is my veins
To open to the possibility
That you missed a drop of my heart
Deep within my bones

My eyes glaze toward a darkened horizon
Unblinking,
Unaware of breath
Waiting for the cool glow of morning,
Far away but always unfailing,
To reach for me
Revive me

With a moment of barest light
To remind me
that the world is still breathing....
-:Written December 24:- one week after my best friend/lover walked out on me. His fears finally destroyed us.

I keep telling myself that life is difficult and will always be painful; and part of finding freedom is learning to embrace that pain....to learn from it and let it change you. To make you stronger and be able to experience even richer joy because of that pain.

I'm learning. But sometimes the wounds feel so mortally deep.
© 2004 - 2024 miquluva-coia
Comments11
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
drmanhattan's avatar
Y'know two seconds ago I read someone's poem about cutting themselves, and I said that it was far too cliche and overdone to be likeable. This, however, is very well written and actually works. I don't know if it's supposed to be about cutting, you use a lot of blood and wound imagery, but that could be metaphor for emotional hurt. This sort of reminds me of the writings Guiseppe Ungaretti did in the early 1940's, but that might be because I just finished his book.