Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Bunker

My violent vices are so beautiful in the moonlight of my musings,
menthol cigarettes,
maddeningly short dresses,
mono recordings of 1940’s swing dances.
These are the things that keep me sane while the wolves wait outside of my bunker.

I am in the arms of an old haunt tonight,
he is harmed by the truth we both know,
and he holds me as if he knows I am bound to evaporate when the sun rises.
He lets me cry, like a child in his charmed embrace,
keeping his own weeping for when I’ve gone,
because it’s hard to be in love with a long gone fantasy,
and that is all I ever was,
clear as day, transparent as dawn breaks.

I have my coping mechanisms,
but my lust for life has a death wish,
and I can’t do this,
running in and out of darkened spaces,
frightened of the light that shines within me and how I can never escape it.
I tell him that I’m trying to be a factual falsehood,
and he just nods, with a familiar sadness in his broken, blue eyes.

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