Dry Portraits

And so we got tired. Tired of this mortal silence, tired of all the rage, of all misunderstanding and of those strange shadows crossing that grave we used to call bedroom, lying over that poison we used to call bed. Our bodies are tired our desires are dead. Unable to smile and to act as natural as a deep breath before the jump we are condemned to roller coasters and guillotines, to fight with spike words and empty hearts, black hearts I would say, filled with strange bile. And I will never get to know you, you will never get to know me, as we built walls from our fear, and we started to use love as a weapon, tears as a new kind of doom. And every time was more difficult, the feeling, this disgusting feeling of beauty fading away, destroyed by all your rudeness, by all your hate and all your completely sure of yourself behaviour. And don’t think there’s only one criminal here, I should be punished as well, maybe for losing my strength, my motivations and specially for losing you. For apparently never make myself clear whatever I tried to say to you, to explode like a bomb trying to squash all that craziness that you used to cover me with. Words can’t do much, it’s always a big monologue, and we are just talking to our own eyes, those same eyes that wanted to live that life so badly. And this life is now turning into strange memories, to be collected among others of the same, and you already got a few. Just make sure to be honest with them.