the Purgatory of a Broken Heart

Fall into the abysmal depths

A shade nocturnal in the midnight court.

Obsidian chains making sinister music as the procession approaches from the rear.

After issuing countless condemnations, she grows bored.

Finally, her eyes gently close as she drifts into picturesque reverie.

Not warmth, but compliance.
Not harmony, but smooth erasure.

A practiced ease that asks nothing back,
that reflects what is wanted
until the wanting forgets itself.

Courteous anesthesia.
A social smile pressed flat against the glass,
polite enough to disappear inside it

Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, or don’t. Either way, survival mode does not ask for permission, it demands presence.

And you submit and obey.