Dirty water glass

But I begged her to come downstairs because the guests were waiting. 

And I wanted to scream up to her,

“You're beautiful,

you are.

 

And the times we spent together that cold summer will never slip away.”

But it's time to come down now;

make your way along the curving staircase with your elegant fingers holding on

so dearly. 

 

You began to shake as your ribcage caved in,

so far deep that your heart couldn't escape the grasp of your bones.

Every soothing word I whispered

traveled over the plush maroon carpet that enveloped the wooden steps,

 

Unstitching the scars that became harsh to our eyes.

I could see your ribcage taking form again.

 

The clock's ticking became my own heartbeat;

I could feel it in my fingertips.

And the whispers of our guests, with their hand-ironed clothing, 

pierced my eardrum.

 

Nothing could stop it.

I screamed loud enough for the neighboring windows to shutter.

To  you, I said,

"Darling, you need to hurry."

 

We're running out of time;

the skeletons downstairs are beginning to take shape,

and I can't bear to see it.

 

With my eyes cautiously squinted,

the girl in which I craved was split ever so gracefully.

She took each step so delicately,

so sweetly,

so fragile,

that I caught my breathe.

 

I realized that, for the first time, 

she took on my very own features.

And that maybe, just maybe, I was gazing into

a dirty water glass. 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741