Souvenirs.

I know the strike was deadly and final
Your head fell straight and bled itself lifeless.
Death doesn't change anything, only makes us still.
You were as silent as you were ten years ago.



It all started with a souvenir,
The one you got from your lover.
It smelt of her sex and hair, as I played with my tiny hands.
Little, I was, and have always been. Too little, too easy.
Easy and vulnerable enough to fall back in your arms
Again, and again, and again, after every conscious fall.

I made the souvenir my mantle,
And placed every man as an artifact of memories
Memories of love, affection, warmth, always seen, never felt.
The big book filled page by page, recording lost pieces
Broken and lost souvenirs of men as lovers, and lovers as faded memories.
But you, I never lost. Nor did I hide, but I kept yours always safe.

At nights you put me to sleep, some days we laughed.
Then I kept seeing the wound, in you, me, in him and her.
You kept slipping and lying, I did the same, and to many.
Happiness is disillusionment, the mourning is reality.
The plasticity of your being in my nostalgia shop
Suffocates and murders every possibility of an escape from wonderland.

Vividness takes over my mind as I sit opposite.
You are still the vacant monster who stole my light
But did you set fire to my shop,
And broke all those souvenirs.
Lie to me once more
And I am prepared..