who knew women could kill themselves so brutally?

I didn't hate her.
that's the thing, she'd been a good friend
well, sometimes
she'd fed off things I couldn't see
my weakness was her strength
she always liked to be the one pulling the strings
always liked to hang in dark bars and musty corners and
shadowy foyers of dreary castles long since abandoned

"let's do whiskey," she'd screech as soon as I'd walk in
grabbing my hand and ushering me to some torn and tattered bar stool
that'd seen better days in better years and squeaked far too nosily for my comfort
and I'd protest and squirm and throw up a hand, "you know whiskey makes me sick"

it did. the worst kind of sick. the devilish sick
the sick where you could care less about misgivings
the sick where indulging in sins that burnt your skin
became a fetish you couldn't quite cure
she knew whiskey made me weak. foolish. dumb.
and she'd pour it down my throat with a shrill laugh
and a hint of satisfaction in the twinkle of her eye
if you looked close, right at the iris
you could almost see the demon she was
I hated how often I found myself looking there
peeking, wondering, almost hoping to see it

"drink!" she'd shout, sliding shot glass after shot glass across splinted wood
mayhem, she wanted. madness, she craved. the sicker I got the stronger she grew
until there he was, the demon in the iris, staring back at me in full

"welcome home," he'd always say
and he'd wrap his hands around my throat
and squeeze until darkness covered me
and devils possessed me and I no longer knew
who God had made me to be
and damn I hated how good it felt
because at least the devil gave you guidance

and there she'd be, in the corner recesses
smiling like some god-awful doll
two years past its prime trying to
push her way back to relevance

and so I'd gutted her
carved out each piece of rotten organ
that resembled anything close to a heart
I needed her dismembered in bits and pieces
to know for sure she'd never be capable of coming back
and when it was done
when she no longer stood whole
her demon left too
I guess three's a party; two is no fun

I woke up that morning stronger than I'd been
not really knowing what I was and what I wasn't
in the corner was a pool of blood;
thick, brown, congealed in the corners
I left it there until I had to sell the house in '06
could never really bring myself to clean it
there was something omnipresent about it
comforting, almost
some nights it would glow a bit
I swear, it would
on those nights I could almost hear her laugh
I guess I found comfort in knowing hell was close by
the new house is a bit too clean

you know, somedays I really miss her


touché is a visual journal compiled of poetry, prose, and literary reflections. maybe there's something within these pages that will soothe your soul, or ease your mind, or, at the very least, allow you to feel a little less alone in this world. enjoy. if you feel at home here, please feel free to follow along on bloglovin' for updates

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