Inside me, I carry for you

Cry me a tear for those empty moments, these long hours during the night when the words seperation and distance take on another meaning. The more you reach out, the more you feel swallowed by the voices and static around you. The more you try, the harder you close your eyes and try to stop the welling of feeling that's growing inside you. That bitter and pungent plant, rooty tendrils entwined around your heart and lungs squeezing as you gasp. Breath in, breath out. It hurts, and no medicine fixes it, this emotional attack, mimicry of asthma. You're closed inside, and it squeezes harder, your heart hurting, your lungs shallow, and you feel a disgusting itch inside you, crawling up your back, deep inside, where you can't reach, where only she could of reached. But she left long ago, and doesn't care to touch you there anymore, with words or hands, or a glance of her eye. The itch grows up your spine, incessent, burning, prickly, like the caress of those dirty whores that never satisfy, just tease and leave me feeling worse inside, the itch still there, poisonous and caustic. It's like swallowing the most sweet lie, covered in sickening tastes to hide the disgusting ugly secrets inside, covered with white hair to tickle your mouth and throat, to make you gag as it goes down, to make your throat convulse as those small white hairs, bristles really, gouge a path down as your esophagus works in pain. That lie, inside your stomach, is nothing but a burr, rolling around as nervous thoughts fill your mind and day, your entire life you can feel what she gave you, right there. Yes, it's right there, and I can feel it now as my stomach roils, uncalm sea, and uncalm mind, restless heart beating a jittery rhythym as I try to cross this sea of life. People ask how can one live a lie? I never did know, until I carried one inside me, that precious lie, last gift of the departed, last kiss of the one with eyes who could melt my soul. It's my baby, and my silly pretentious thoughts that think of it as a child in my womb, if only I had one. I imagine that bitter weed growing inside me is what she left me, the beauty that we created, the beauty we had, that wasn't ever really there, that turned into a mockery of what we wished for each other. I suppose it's right that I carry this inside me, for all that I have done to her. The hurt we gave each other was shared in full and relished in full. We never felt hurt until the one we loved entirely showed us what it meant. It's another memory I'll carry, a keepsake, I clutch to my side that aches whenever I try to stand and walk and pretend. Enough of what we shared and what weeds we planted in each other's gardens, I certainly sowed enough prickly things inside her furrows. What she laid in me, years in wait, has been growing, and I feel that one day, a day soon, that it might just burst, bloody red and glistening, gory as a bloodied head, rictus smile of ivory sepals and violet-red petals flowing forth, wet sap, crimsom running down my skin as my last breaths gave birth to what we had made, and my eyes closed and my lips smiled as I felt myself fade away, nothing but dirt for this poison that two people wrought together. Such beauty love can bring and such perfection, but sadly, I always fail to live up to such dreams, but I hope this grisly and grim flower I carry for you love is pleasing, for we made it together and you've been in my thoughts always as I let it eat away at me and pined for you, smile your vanilla smile for me and cry those tears that are so bright when you see me -- for those are the things that made me love you so, so give me that lasting memory when we share this gift together.