House of Moratorium

He loved me, but he never said it. He never had to, because love doesn’t take “not now” for an answer, and it doesn’t shut up simply because a tongue won’t form three syllables. I still heard it. It was in his raspy tone, and it was in the way he looked at me like I could blot out the sun. Blue eyes, huge and beautiful, begging me to dream with him. He never had to tell me, the cold wall pressed against my back said it, as I tasted him with so much more than just my mouth. It was murmured in the pressure of lips on my neck, and it was written in the braille of goosebumps up my leg.   It was glittering in tears the night we tried to lay the whole thing down, because the unspoken can scream too loudly. You could hear it in my choked sobs, as I realized, That he was the one who never said he loved me, because he was the only one who did.

The strongest, most potent drug a human can encounter, is another human being. When they cross paths with another creature that mirrors their own good intentions and terrible words. To look into the eyes of someone just as confused and angry, wild and fiery as you are; well it is the most addictive, most easily abused substance known to man. In the heat and power of that moment, yes, it can be beautiful. You can find the best of yourself in that mirror. But what happens when it shatters? The poor soul standing amongst the glass shards is your typical addict. Shaking and crying, screaming and lashing out. Rocking back and forth, sitting in the glass. This is withdrawal, and it is sad.

you wreck havoc in your mind old paths of darkness well defined; sure, you've walked the trails many times but never, it would seem, enough to know your way out. 

We’re the sweet creatures that wrap our guns in flowers and scent our bullets like late August evenings, and beg to be riddled with holes so the last rays of hope can float in. The sunshine burning through our veins, we’re the ones who seek out pain again and again and again. The shot rings out and it sounds like a ballad, or an opera, only we’ve forgotten how to tell if the performers are singing or screaming for the end of what they act like they feel. How would we know? It all looks the same when you’re reading lips with your eyes shut. We are the sweet creatures who are born to be snipers, but we’re not precise, we’re not even picky. There’s no safety switch with us, it’s a two-step tango of target-and-fire. Heaven forbid we get a clue, that the barrage of beauty we run through can leave corpses beside our footprints. Our mouths are guns. Love is every bullet in the chamber. And everyone wants to bleed.