Posted in life, Poems, story, thoughts

The fallen and the sullen.

He says, “Trust itself is gangrene.”

I watch him cry, tucking his fingers within his palms, clenching, releasing, uncurling, repeating—Being. I want to reach out, brush aside his downpour but my joints are clogged and my heart is heavy. I blink. Then I force myself to breathe. Still. Still my parched lips will not dare to speak.

He continues,” I let her corrode everything I was,” and angrily in midst my storm, I want to scream at him, “You are corroding me now, you hypocrite.” I remain silent. His voice like acid against my skin. I let him empty himself to me.

“You are such a good friend.” He says, “friend…friend,” a dagger to me. I blink. I force myself to smile lightly, reach out, wrap my arms around him but still my lips they will not part.

“Everything she told me, I let myself think that was what I really was–” He pauses, “–am.” He pauses again, “but I’m not and it took you to show me that. I think that is why I met you, You were sent to heal me, You’re—You are an angel.”

I curl in rage, wanting to lunge at him. Kiss him. Wrap my hands around his neck and hurt him. Conflicted: I remain silent.

“You just somehow understand. I’ve never had that before, you know. I have always felt so belittled—insignificant, like a speck in everyone’s eyes. You taught me I am spectacular. You, just so gentle and non-judgmental. You’re an angel.”

I boil, instinctively placing two fingers against my wrists, nervously wondering if he can see my fury. Racing, I surge to myself, “You know nothing of me. Can’t you see the wickedness in my eyes? Can’t yo see I am pain?” He can’t see a thing, red-rimmed eyes full of release. I force myself to stare into them but all I see is my own grief; And my lacerated lips bitten bare, they will not speak.

Dawn sounds of death,

Spring smells of decay.

He speaks till dewdrops descend. We sit together, the fallen and the sullen drowning in the deafening horizon of being.

He stands, stretching his legs. He holds out his hand to pull me up, a morphing soul peeling apart at the edges.

“So this is goodbye.” He says. He leans in, kisses my cheek, Pulls away Walks away. I stand staring at his back, receding, falling from view, until he vanishes.

-Eva M.M.

Thank you my lovely ink angels as always for reading and sharing your thoughts and feedback with me in the comments!

” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”



I am the author of and am currently working on a book of poems. To find out more check out my about me page as well as my page about my blog and welcome to the ink angels community.

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