eireann

I've never been one for absolution.
she.
cries.
only answers. she states with a matter of fact practicality that makes me sick.
we sit on the stairway
and she is just one sick sense apathetic cigarette flick away from the cancer that kills the heart
death.kills.reality. she remarks as she prays for emotional trauma from the drama that has overwhelmed the masses.
I listen, fascinated by the way she sips the sick twisted drink in her hand.
my mind fails me.
this sweet snow that falls on us this starless evening betrays the bittersweet cold of fever.
I cry that I am not more of the desire that drives us to mark and label and rename and make up stories in our minds.
her apathy is warmed by hatred and cooled by fury.
I understand.
she lunges into verbal violence with a veracity that overwhelms the falacy that has been laced through sweet lullabyes by those meant to understand honesty.
cigarette flick and she is gone with the mind cancer that kills the soul and taints the heart.
I see her.
I see her because she is one step away from the pain that has made me so
sick sense apathetic with sweet dances and second chances and prayer for forgiveness and hope for tomorrow.
rise above this sweet melody of explanation
because absolution is merely a dream.
answers are often false.
life.stands. still
and she is just one sick sense apathetic cigarette flick from acceptance.