Damaged Goods

Do you remember the day?
When the heap gave away,
Crumbling down as I stood,
Even I was rendered damaged goods.

Pour some malt through the cracks,
And watch as it spills out,
The stars look beautiful from a windowsill,
The ache muffles you whenever you speak.

Empty benches and dry fountains,
Cold gusts and tattered blankets,
Triumphant endeavors and bolstered hopes,
Those painful melodies ringing in heart holes.

How long will you sit there?
And bear the scrutiny of unkind eyes,
Oh, foolish mind, you murder yourself behind closed doors,
Over afflicted horrors and lost causes.

How long does it take?
To strip down all those deceitful layers,
Those masked truths, those dark mirrors,
Do the tears help? Or do they just aggravate?

Running through your shallow veins,
Of different colour and make,
Illusionist in function, numbing in effect,
A bed of pitiful expulsions it lays.

These same veins bleed out ink,
On papers dirty and clean,
Of intimate words and excruciating longings,
Of forbidden reprimands and scourgings.

A waft of charcoal,
Warms that shivering spine,
Drops of perspiration on a feverish forehead,
Residing on some dirty, old pavement.

In your desolate silhouette I see mine,
Unwavering and devoid of light,
Narrating unruly tales from those mute lips,
That were wronged by charming quips.

Reflections in the windshield,
Twitching legs and minefields,
Did you fly for a moment,
Before you hit rock bottom.

Those bloodshot eyes drooping dead,
Did you cry until you failed?
How many times did you reach into the inferno,
To pull out your flawed pieces.

Those scars that you reveal,
Those wounds that you bleed,
Those tears that you shed,
Don't forget to lock the door, my damaged friend.