I saw my broken legs when the lights tried to shield your eyes but you flared up, unaware, that you'd let me mould your pulsing hand into a cane for a blind man; but you and I were not to be thus fated, trapped in an aging existence where spirited nudges crack the other's ribs and bitter wounds ooze from sharp tips of stitching needles, too vain to remain for long within the sterile walls of a first aid kit; yet, too rusted to nurse a wound and leave it unscathed; so we puncture holes into each other's skins, tangled and unable to tell apart our battle scars from the froth brimming our mouths as open vials of poison ricochet and leave two dead, while enemy lands lie awake, stealing marches upon our grave.
You once told me to never trust another soul; a stillness would possess you as you spoke, like vengeance carved in solid stone.
You once taught me how to shake a hand, and how to wear sincerity in a smile; then I'd watch the doors close behind us and a stranger would smugly recline in your place, with the skin of a cactus paranoid of fate.
You once swore to me everyone hides daggers in their clothes; I still remember the list you disclosed to me of all the names in red you'd crossed off.
You once smiled with pride when I shyly confided that Fear was the only friend I'd ever known; you shook your head and emboldened me, promising that Fear was the street name for Safety.
But now you're gone and I'm still here, counting my steps past my comfort shell; I recall your words as I hug a friend and wish you were here so I could have said that you were wrong:
not every monster shakes your hand, some hide in the claws you learn to command, and fear just as deeply pierces a heart as the sharpest venomous dagger can.
I never thought I'd envy Mere words on sunlight-tinted sheets But Jealousy is a messy toddler Sparing none within vicinity Not even pretty, pearly letters Stringed into shimmering necklaces Sold with a book of handwritten tears That would flow over a coffee cup But drown in a puddle of mud; Jealousy is a guarded gate That limps and pants and relocates Building sand walls around petty names Promising their burial when it bows to fate; Jealousy tastes like bitter syrup on my tongue I grimace as I mouth masterpieces dearly beloved My imperfections scream and recoil in distaste Wondering why they're to be beautified for public's sake Words stare back from supposed blank sheets, Yet I suspect a strong hand of deceit For even words meant to comfort and ease come shrouded in pretentious-coloured veiling