I’d present my heart to you, but you condoned it to be black and blemished. You haven’t seen it beat. It could be clean and red, thumping or slow paced. I can’t make you see that I’m an honourable man with intentions to love the bones and blood of you. There’s was a sliver of hope dancing through the light, your photogenic face a sight to behold, but I’m afraid we’re fading into black.
Last year we sank lower than expected. Burning desire was our life stream, our backbone, sexual urgency kept us together even through confrontation. We knew the pendulum was swinging towards disconnection, hitting the fatty tissue of bloated excuses.
Excuses tiptoed but then sprung into life. They were thrown like daggers around the atmosphere, back and forth. I couldn’t distract myself from the bigger picture. You knew we were doomed, teetering on the line, I stood there like I was on a landmine, unable to move, expecting my love for you explode into particles of disdain.
You aided me in times of unpowered strength. Darting from chemist to chemist to help me unhinge myself from edges of the void. My future uncertain, endless night spent sobbing into a pillow, rattling as the wind hit against thin, glass panes. And you stood there, silenced, but disturbed by my bent, fidgeting body.
I didn’t want to touch you with my rough hands and brittle nails. A became a ghost to you, a fool, a creature creating wars in a small one bedroom apartment where dreams stalled and emotions fell demoralizingly through the cracks.
I can’t find you now.
I am unable to call myself an honourable man, an admirable human being, shooting for glitter and gold. And you left, with a painting in one hand and a bottle of expensive wine in the other. You couldn’t wave at me, or say goodbye, your tears didn’t trickle down chalk white skin, and they were kept for another day and time.
My pulsating heart feels heavy on occasion. Heart palpitations intrude, snapshots of past events impose like a dramatic movie which never stops. Bad habits control my days.
And there’s you.
A successful artist dazzling the world and the cold art galleries which many eccentrics bask in? Where poets carry their notepads, and write stanzas fit for bathroom stalls. Some make it, some don’t, and some are smash hits, fuelled on words and narcotics.
You’ve made it.
Oh you’ve made it. Clarity has stood the test. You can now see your achievements pile up. Accolades for the greats. Paintings all round, hearts melted by award speeches. Ceremonies ticked off, uncomfortable shoes worn, bleeding feet and those tears which were kept shed uncontrollably.
I see you on the screen. I see you in the lights outside Michelin started restaurants, kissing privileged cheeks, drunk on alcohol and adrenaline.
You were always attractive. Dreamy in fact. But you’ve changed the colour of your hair, you’re fitter, wearing thousand dollar dresses.
I held you back.
Drugged and isolated. A dreamer suffocated by self-doubt. I held you back, cracked your resolve. I challenged your beliefs, orchestrated our pitfalls.
I now stay in a gritty part of town. Overwhelmed by broken homes and disenchanted travellers drinking themselves into chaotic instances.
I am frightened.
Frightened of this stretch of town. Memories of you drown out the black.
I know you’re a drug I cannot have.
Bio: Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist who has written for many online and print publications. He also likes to write dark fiction.