Dumb Charades.

I wonder darling, some days when you sit beside me as we continue this charade of ours, do you hear my jaws as they grind together hard enough to resemble rusty machinery that cannot be made to function again, no matter how much oil is poured into its ancient joints? Do you look at me from the side of your eye, and see a statue of hollow stone, and can you hear my heart as it beats against its stone prison as hard as ever, begging to be let free? Can you see how the thorns stick into my bloody back from these thrones of ours? Do you feel the heat of the flames that lap at my feet, threatening to melt this girl of ice and snow, or do you admire how they reflect in my black eyes instead?
Do you even see the blood as it drips from where my nails have cut into my palms too deep, do you notice the crimson stains as they grow slowly on the arms of these seats that provide no rest in all their glory?
You used to say you could hear my words before they even left my mouth, but these days, why can’t you feel my screams as they rise from my gut, only to die in my throat?

I wish I had known before, ruling in hell isn’t all it is made out to be.

Hell And Heaven.

Jean-Paul Sartre once said

In a play

That hell

Is other people,

But then,

My dear

Isn’t heaven too?

In the questioning looks,

In the coy smiles,

In the inside jokes,

And the twinkling eyes?

There,

A bliss exists,

Seldom found anywhere else,

But in those simple moments

Where nothing exists,

But for you

And him.

Makes you wonder

Doesn’t it, darling,

Are hell and heaven

Really as different

As they are made out to be

If both exist

In the grays of his eyes?

 


Image taken from here.