In Irreverence

"I hold onto your words like they were rules from a book

I cleaned up my things and dropped them on the way home

And now you're a dream I'm too scared to have"

- The Wytches, Summer Again from the album, Annabel Dream Reader (2014). 

 

 

 

Manet, Édouard. Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe. 1862-1863. Paris, France.

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A couple of days ago, I had a dream that you died.

What stemmed from my dream-like state was the haze that collected within my bones when I woke up: I confused reality versus fiction. Not able to differentiate the materiality of truth, my veins didn't bleed in a walloping ache that you expected but rather embers stirred in the burrows of my heart. You're nothing but an anchor haunted by the stifling image of a burdened spirit that lingers at the withered ground you used to trample on me. 

Halloween has always been a sentimental holiday for me but I despise the fact that you besiege the restless nights where melancholy creeps in the corner of my room. Nothing more than a skeleton in a damp and aged closet, a burial for the facade of who I thought you were has been stomped over with the actuality that you're similar to a Black Widow: unforgivingly venomous and deceitful to everyone in your proximity. 

I don't mourn the figment of you I believed in and obsessed in a sacrilegiously enveloped way; your character, I presumed could navigate a moral compass, is slowly decomposing in an agitated cemetery. 

You're collecting dust amidst a field of enshrouded and forgotten vessels of disappointments.