negligible works of art

Our lives are not works of art
there will be no ending besides death
and in the end no one will remember
who we really were
regardless of whether or not
we ever found what we were looking for

She’s a fourteen year old suicide
waiting to happen
planted among the groves you cultivate
with bright lights
- if love mattered
talk wouldn’t
and I’ve walked through
the loop of your story
too many times to believe
that love is a concept you understand

The road only goes one way these days
up and out and away from you
as though escape has ever truly
been an option
we both know you’ll still be waiting
when he returns
with vengeance dripping from your wrists
in a signed declaration of singularity
it’s my way, or hell
never mind the walls smeared
with your child’s blood
as she tries to chase a way
out of here
to place of no return

Because you wear insanity likes it’s beautiful
like madness is a place worth living
between the bottles of pills
and overworked cigarettes
staining your shaking fingers
her words slipping around you
all ash and smoke and meaningless

But you don’t tell her
death isn’t a saviour
you don’t tell her it’s just a way out
you don’t tell her that when she dies
it won’t be beautiful
the blood on the walls a sight
you’ll never forget

Our lives are not works of art
when the show’s over
there will be no going home

© Indie Adams 2015