Ruin

 

"There is ruin here-, starts the poet, " upon the stage of life there is something festering beneath"- 

Pause.

Let's start this off properly mutters the emptiness. My name is nothing, I am made of silver dreams and the tears shed by your mother, and you dear poet have no talent. 

"I disagree, chimes a hidden silhouette, -somethings aren't objective such as poetry and misery and love and music, at least good music.  So let the poor thing continue". 

Thank you, as I was saying, there is ruin here, a place where dreams come to die and nothing wears them out of spite. I give life to feelings unknown, I name unseen things, unheard things. I am a poet and I say there is ruin here. 

The stench of antiseptic is thick in the air. She must've tried again unsuccessfully. We are at the hospital so keep up, there is no need for you to loiter around so uselessly, we don't have time. We must get to her first. We must!

Let us hear it then says nothing.

The silhouette giggles with no mirth. The poet has no voice. 

The piece starts off as such; 

Beautiful Ruin

I never learned how to be anything but blue

And then I met someone who was every color

And the palette was all over the place

Something so vibrant was so out of place

In my world where I was blue

I smashed through your carefully-constructed shades

And hurled your dreams to the wall

Baby whispered

Come back

I said stay right there

I’ll call you

In due time, I learned, the flowers don’t smell the same. And the blue was now a kaleidoscope. I was ruined for all colors.  

In 2 years…..

I lied about my feelings, they weren’t blue

I remain frozen in time, with a shade assembled of your heart and a fantasy constructed of nothing

Like a mirage

I am not real. 

Baby cried, I loved you. I know I said.

You named your daughter after me. 

She is beautiful.

There is a sudden screech and we all come to a pause. Time screams in pain, have you gone crazy shouts nothing, blood pools beneath the seats?

Seats?

Hi, I am Mouna. A writer, a daughter, a sister and something I can't separate from the rest of these titles. 

I am a sad person, and a happier woman. I fall in love with the world, and food and money and luxury and you. 

I fell in love with you. Peace, I'll never know it again, that's what you get for lusting after something so unattainable, such as you. I describe everything related to your person as bewitching, greedy, sorrowful. 

Now let's get back to poet. Poor thing must be startled. 

Have I gone insane? The shadows in my room speak to me and I swear I saw a flower smiling at me the other day. My doctor said the anxiety is getting to me but my guru says it's the enlightenment of my soul. I can finally hear my heart beat. I thought I was dead. 

There is nothing we can do about this. Their faces are grim. Must be a lie, I can still hear the peeping of the machine. She is alive. I know because I still love her. How can I love a soul that is no longer attached to mine? How can I love someone who is dead?

There is a silence in the room, an unnatural stillness to the air as if all the atoms have come to a standstill, a vacuum-

You get the gist I believe. Madness is loving the unlovable, but true lunacy is trying to put together the poet. The writer with no purpose. The actor with no faces, the girl who kept going down down down the rabbit hole holding the hand of her best friend. Wasn't that how the story went? You are absolutely bonkers she laughs and all the best people are replies back nothing. 

The flowers are dead. She's been buried. The poet has no voice, but that doesn't mean they can't write. Here I am typing this while you lay your cold so cold finger on the crook of my neck feeling the heartbeat. Nothing can hold you to this moment, I can't even place your name to paper, knife to heart. 

Inspired by sleepless nights and you who left me to be dead ;)