Sweet Addiction ~ A Terrifying Love Story

Blow out your torches 
the hunt is over
the pyre lies abandonded,
 blackened and smoldering.
How can you blame me for any of it? 
Your lips shaped the lies into spiced drops which melted on my tongue and the addiction was so sweet…
And the craving was deeper every day
every night
every night
the pain and pleasure of your name drove me into the streets
and like Caliban I was cursed,
in servitude to anyone strong enough to look me in the eye,
and only steeped in liquor and erstaz friends could I find the courage to sing,
the only tune I know….
And it was your song,
all for you…
What right did I have,
you say,
to follow,
to pursue,
to claim,
what I was told was mine…..maybe not in words.
But by deeds certainly…..
If possession is nine tenths of the law,
then by law I am possessed and those crumbs of yours I stole each night,
all added up.
I stood loyal and steadfast when all around me fell away
like a house of cards collapsing. 
How could I walk away? 
How could I change now after all the alterations?
I sewed the magic and the longing on to my bare flesh biting back the tears
with thoughts of the lovelook on your face in our hall of mirrors. 
And those scars I wore with pride, offering them to you as proof of my adoration,
my worthiness.
And if the dark I treated with was more,
or less,
than my broiling mind could sort out,
what did it matter?
Should I love the water any less because I am drowning?
This sacred pact is sealed and you are with me in this darkling place,
some of you,
So hush and be still my love,
The burnings are over,
 the ashes raked,
 the rabble given up and left with only whispers and empty hands.
The world out there doesn’t understand,
 but we have each other,
and nothing else matters…
nothing but that, 
and this sweet addiction.



About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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