Full of rage. A list of names. The bed-frame is etched with notches and scars from nights full of games. I don’t know whose this is. The faceless stains. These aches and pains. You’d turn, gloat and float away. I don’t know whose this is, but it’s not mine anymore.

It’s  final drinks. It’s time to leave. Put your cards on the table and raise your glass. We the wretched. You frail pallid wreck. Your assumptions have cost you. Opaque, you are forgery, and everything is undone and untrue. This is so petty. The line was never connected to this abortion feed. Flared exaggeration calls for attention, carried on by dry heave and now you’re bundled up in a stifled room, broken bottle wedged between your teeth.

Cupid does not flourish in broken appendages. While dissonance is arguing for the benefits of breathing, he’s out putting arrows in disinterested carriers. So smile. But don’t thank me. While I line my walls with entrails and souvenirs, the open gullet of my home will wallow willingly. You are welcome here, but I could not care less where you choose to make your bed.

Will you ever come to your senses? On the cubicle door, it is written, “never let anybody in”. Not for all the mottled reflections. Or the typically vague preconceptions. These Smouldering children. Trojan horses filled with malice and pretences. I’m on my way out. Please don’t try and stop me.

I want it all… Heed the siren call… The tragedy in rings and chains… The violence in loving refrains and silence…  The insidious voice of ‘reason’ and the abject grunt of all in attendance… I want it all and I want it now… Before the ground has a chance to claim me I want to have begged all your pardons. If the greed of all your filthy mouths had been less, I’d have never known the kiss of sweet… empty… freedom…

These things I wake to are not mine and in the distance, hope grows like stones from storm clouds…