it's not a mercy

he’s got a voice like darkness
that whispers a suicide pact in my ear
and in my younger years
I would have glorified that ending
in two guns and blood splattered on the walls

I can’t live for today
so let me live for tomorrow
where the sun might slip through the storm clouds
and light up the highway candles away from hell

I’m in and I’m under and I want to go home
to where the grass is still green
and the memories of the forgotten
are intact and remembered

there’s an angel in the snow
that’s shaped like me
pinked with the blood of open wrists
and a prayer to whoever’s listening

white lines in pink skin like roads to the past
faintly beginning
ending in beads of blood long dried and healed over
it’s here we begin, it’s here he wants to end
in fire and brimstone with his blood on his hands

and I love to listen to the romance of dying
of how dark and warm and peaceful the abyss
might feel
but I’ll wait my turn
and the inaccuracy of palmistry that lies me
to the grey old age of 74
while he doesn't care if he makes to 35

so we play here in the void of lonely hearts
loveless with hearts full of ungiven love
where he’s become a taint on my soul
that whispers back to him with the smallest of words
hold on

-Eve-