Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

Angelique

What angels whisper false promises
Into my skull, denying me the satisfaction
Of my last breath.
Where is god when the knife
Is so close to my already scarred wrists?
Is there no salvation to be had?

It was once upon a time that I had
Sanity sleeping upon my scalp, all I have now, are promises
Broken by a single word, cutting hope like a wrist
Being sliced. It is death, with little satisfaction.
My company, a knife,
Some music, a slowing breath.

A halt, to breath,
To breathing, to all I never had
But coveted greatly. A cease, to the knife
That scars, that weakens, the promises
That seemed real, the satisfaction
That guts me, left me only with damaged wrists.

An opened wound, my breathing wrists
Inhale and spew, but its breaths
Are limited and dangerously lacking in satisfaction.
You eyes were all I had.
I gambled them away like promises
And swore to lie again, in waiting, with the knife.

A glass? A knife?
My exposed pale wrists
And an ounce of promise
And all the air in my lungs to breath.
Bedtime eternal, and the clandestine wishes I had
Thrown away will fly with satisfaction.

My every word drippnig with satisfaction
As the knife
Drips into the night and I had
Made up my mind, only to see how my wrists
Are unarmed and my breath
Smells of commonly vomited promises.

I had little satisfaction coursing through my wrists.
There lies the knife, here be my breath,
Before me lies what I once had; fulfilled promises.

December 20, 2007


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Angelique

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