I still feel like my throat was slit a month ago,
And I've been bleeding out in a serial killer's basement ever since.
I feel like a living murder victim.
I'm stuck in a limbo I didn't invite.
There are days of anger,
And there are days of sadness.
But, all together, there is a lot of nothingness.
I feel like a ghost,
Becoming increasingly inconsequential and forgotten
While in the prime of my life.
All the witnesses of my past greatness
Are scattered across the world.
And the days in which I was celebrated seem to be fading into a distant past.
The search parties,
Try as they might to find me,
To rescue me,
To bring me home to recover,
Have yet to successfully locate me.
Sometimes I feel as though they've seen
But not comprehended
And perhaps called off the search too soon.
And then there are times when the trapdoor is opened.
And the murder site is returned to.
To put lipstick on slimy lips
Or caress the silken, slipping hair of the many trophies there.
My lifeless eyes linger on those of my killer.
Try as I might to forget how I once saw them
And focus on my own destruction's influence on them
I mourn the loss of what I thought was a growing love.
What instead became a slaughter
That rendered my meat rotting and useless.
Which is something else entirely to mourn.