SOBRIETY
- Jul 3
- 1 min read
By Ainsley Hayward
The grip of your bite stings like a malignant cancerous cell, blossoming the destruction of sanctioned virtues, blood remembers what I tried to forgive
Your fingers are like sitting on a beach of lamentation at night, surrendering calloused soles into the skeletal ashes of sand, presenting your body as hollow so I couldn't stand
Those rosy pink lips innate the soil beneath my forsaken indifference toward individuality, bringing silence in thunder and darkness in day
Tentatively, you grant the eternity residing inside of my heart to soak my blood, cutting my wrists to reach your divinity and break free from your maggots' infectious contagion
You had told me you created my temperament, my cycle, that you were the phase of my metamorphosis to orchestrate an opera of beauty in your theater of introspection
Your inner desolation is present in every wave you form, in every sense of isolation your disposition provides, but when you condemn your final conviction of religion, seraphic angel wings branch from your spine, but not out of salvation, causing the creation of stains on our vow and dragging my abused form down to the void inside of your soul
You never had love, but only manipulation, painting my life with that same perspective; although having a fever, I have recovered from my illness of your condemnation and choice; I don’t need your permission. I take my blood back. I am sober, not erased, clean, or absolved, but no longer yours.