Glaring into a pane of alternate reality,
Demon vengeance;
Tears of blood and salt.
For that one swift second of pure separation from reality;
Life can change.
Walking with one's love object.
Being a participant in a seemingly invisible, unknown love-triangle.
Happy memories of the first kiss mutate into toxic, hazardous blasphemies.
It's not alright to visualise such horrors.
Slit wrists,
Lacking limbs,
Sickness due to witnessing.
Not simply the bondage of just rejection.
Not just the lack of sleep.
Not even simply a cold sweat;
But a psychotic image.
The psyche of a madman.
Suicide is such an ugly word.
It has entered and left.
But is on the conveyor belt of life;
If no one dares to collect the burden,
It will periodically return to rear it's head again.
New forms; same thoughts.
Inevitable breakups are foreseen from the start,
But not the time or method.
A message of pure pain.
Too early; too hurtful.
Only to come after rejoicing how lucky you one were to have "her".
And as to not even have the courage to tell my ear?!
Reminiscing of days yonder past.
Gazing into a glamorous river on an illuminated, vibrant night.
Shimmering water of reflections.
Being with your false-love.
Being merry.
Being simply an object of passion.
Nothing more -- nothing less.
An evening of passion to still be remembered; but never to be forgotten.
My fluttering mind continues.
A mixture of old, false-love; hate and even melancholy.
Perceived as a lobotomy,
For these psychotic thoughts aren't normal.
How can I feel all at once?
I must find help, for I can't be well.
I am an inmate in my own consciousness.
Yet void of existence.

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