Adonis Hammock

The Wilting of a Flower

anger born from love: the name of his newest painting.

red and raw, like open wounds that should have been healed, if not for 

a desperate need to keep bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, to prove that he was alive.

he screamed, and for the first time in forever, felt relieved. 

afraid to hurt, yet scared he would fade away without it. 

but why add to this life of pain? 

hell on earth was his to bear, perhaps a different circle than some, but hell is hell. his to bear, but

not alone; he was the one to decide who helped him, he was scared. 

wailing mouth latches to bare forearm, blood vessels broken. is this a relapse?

to keep bleeding is to start dying.

if not for the loss of that ring, dearest treasure; a thing insignificant in the eyes of others was one 

of the few things keeping him here. a place once full now feels empty. the information he needs

to move on is just out of reach. he knows she’s right. but why add to a life of pain? it set off 

something inside, something he cannot suppress.

vitriolic void, embrace me now!

but before I go, I will let another know:

to keep feeling is to start living.