Wreckage

by The Editor

Let me tell you something:

You’ll love this person, until they drain you.

You’ll weep, until the only thing left is bleeding;

and you’ll do it silently, disgracefully, sometimes violently…until you wring every last drop of them from your body.

You will toil, and my friend, you will trouble. Double bubble.

You will watch the flesh on your limbs crinkle crackle and become so much leather…shoes, belt, chair.

As your face swells and your stomach caves, you’ll see how no one can come and save you.

You’ve laid yourself to rest in the room with the locked door;

and on oh, so many pins and needles…you’ll lay and pray for death.

There were choices.

There were mistakes made.

You could have done more with what you had…and maybe the bleeding out would have gone differently. Maybe not.

You foolish, filthy rat;

you bloody beggar…content rolling and reveling in the vestiges of broken promise.

How devoid of nobility. How invariably counterfeit. How pathetic.

Ask for that whip again!

I’ll bet you a shiny new penny, that you’ll be no wiser tomorrow…or beyond tomorrow.

Just give it all away why don’t you.