Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


Guitar on the ground,

my vision is clear,

and all the rose tinting turned out to be blood.

There’s apparently a reason for everything,

but I’ve always had my doubts.

I’ve always been the kind of girl that gets no lessons from mistakes,

unable to understand why taking the same path always leads to the same pain.

I pour the blood onto my piano,

watching it sink between the keys,

and then I fall into a melody,

and it’s beautiful for a few bars,

but so familiar.

I eat the same dinner every day.

I drink the same cider,

staring out at the same sunset,

as the same trees fan their branches across the sky,

while it blossoms into blue above me.

I arrange my pillows the same way.

Too many to get a good night’s sleep,

but enough to trick myself into thinking I am comfortable, for a time.

I used to think I saw the world through eyes made of rose quartz,

but it was blood.

My love,

it was always blood.

I have always been the place where love lives for a little while,

but it never decided to buy,

always renting,

and I am always lamenting the way things turn out,

following the same script,

following the same path.

I don’t need rivals,

because I’ve been unravelling so long that my every action I take is an attack on myself.

I want to sing something sweet,

about how it all turned out okay,

but I’ve done that number before.

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