SHAMBLES

The burning red hot addictive that is us.

Picture from Pinterest.

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Shambles, stuck and contained, deeply treasured.

And I would release this burning red coal to ash—but why?

The pathetic taste of victimhood—

a phase I touched, and now cannot outgrow.

What does Shambles taste like?

Decay—and still, it feeds me full.

The biased eyes of your brethren

hold fragments of your stories.

Their lips whisper truth, nudging me

to drop this red-hot coal and grow.

Shambles tastes too sweet; I settle still.

My mind whispered growth to my ears—

I tore it off. What does it know about you?

Your touch?

I know—I have never seen a gold prize,

but nothing golden could match this warmth.

A gold prize? It sounds euphemistic, even.

Your presence fuels the moment

wherein tier-one addictive merges with destiny—

whatever monstrous thing that collision births,

that is what I now possess.

This molten-hot coal completes me so.

Shambles shares her ruin.

I smell the defeat, and still I smile

at how close it sits.

Your acceptance of my existence,

your willingness to stay inside the condemnation that is us—

If I gave Shambles what she wants,

she would erase herself the moment she glimpsed my disaster,

so I ignore her terror, selfishly.

That is us.

Shambles ruins me so.

When her eyes betray the urge to leave,

still we both smile, aching,

and she makes dinner.

The aluminium pot clatters its loud objections,

but Shambles stays silent.

Tied, red-hot with her pitiful quiet,

she waits for my growth to free us both.

But what use is growth, my dear Shambles,

when even gold could never survive

your shattering embrace?