Poetry: Melancholy


Her name is Melancholy.

Her heart was broken and she replaced the band-aid keeping the wound closed with barbed wire to hold it all together.

She thought him beautiful, you know.

The kind of beautiful you recognised would only lead to sin, hell, and brimstone but she couldn’t walk away.

She stuck her tongue out.

His name scorched her taste buds over and over until every word she ever spoke tasted of charred immorality.

She felt and did things.

Things she associated with depravity and yet she loved that he tied up her mind and soul to taunt her heart with it.

She loved him so much.

It was the way he squeezed passion from the carcass of her morals and soaked up her values as they dripped from her pores.

She lost against him.

He played chess with her moods; black and white pawns of sadness – joy vanished off the game board one move at a time.

She scrambled after him.

When he won, he tipped the table and walked away without a goodbye, apology or rematch as she tried to gather the pieces from the floor.

She hurt so much.

Her arteries flooded with despair and her heart pumped full of torture as it swelled until it burst wide open and leaked pieces of ‘I told you So’ shrapnel from her eyes.

She went blind.

In the dark she stitched herself back together with cold threads of revenge and a sharp needle of retribution.

She took to the stage.

Claimed her spotlight with the sanctimony of monogamy in a whorehouse filled with stained honeymoon beds of cosmic angels’ virginal blood.

She spoke in ink.

Carving his initials into our minds with a blunt thought which burned like hatred in the back of our throats, not hers: MD

She spelled it.

To make sure you understood who you went up against, when you did not take care for the games and the players on the board – Manic Depression.

Her name is Melancholy.

Copyright ©2016 Adri Sinclair