sunspots and dying orchids

poetic_star's picture

* inspired by the character, Thomas, in Downton Abbey.

There are no ghosts in
your winter-clothed heart
but real monsters claw at
the fleshy, pink walls,
screaming insults that
reach your ears
all the way from inside.
Thomas, maybe
your mind is a damaged
window because
ten years ago,
some mean private schoolboys
threw a stone
through the rainbow-lace glass.

And maybe your lips are bruised
by ex-lovers
who never bothered staying
past nine,
leaving you alone to burn
your fingers against
a vanilla candle flame.
Thomas, your green
eyes were blinded
by your father's hand,
I know, you're not as
untouchable as you pretend
to be and the truth is that
all of us are scared,
running around
these dead gardens
like headless baby birds,
breathless as we try to
stand what we can't
fix about ourselves.

Boy, these games
you play in shadows;
these people you
destroy with letters,
words dipped in pirate wine,
well, it all started when you
realized that happiness
comes at a cost and
now your secrets
gnaw at your stomach,
scratching at your bones
and draining your heart
of all its honey.

But we can't pretend to feel
things that make us shudder
with vintage cigarettes clutched
between our fingers and
emerald tears cascading
down our cheeks
in the albino rain.
Thomas, you were born this way;
made of sunspots
and dying orchids,
so just stand up
and dust off your jacket
of all these tragic
and false pretenses.
Let them fall to the ground
and let people know
that as humans,
we are replaceable,
though never disposable.