Disclaimer: This poem is based on events and characters I do not own.
Imitation of Happiness
Laughter slips soundlessly from his lips
bent slight, arched faintly to smile,
but just so, as to imitate the genuine art of
happiness,
he knows he has to do this,
if only for the sake of his mother,
his newborn sister,
his father,
Jason,
Morgan,
Kristina,
and the others, too countless, faceless, to name;
can't give way to the feelings that
threaten to overwhelm him;
can't give into the nightmarish hell
his life has become:
the memory of blood mixed with black
hair coating his fingers;
of rage, a flame that flickered as it
reached out its licking tendrils
and consumed him in its fury;
can't give into the darkness
that beckons him to sleep, to rest,
with its incessantly urgent whispers;
can't give into the numbness
he so desperately needs and would willingly welcome;
can't give into the rage, red
dripping from fingers coated in the
viscous liquid, which,
no matter how hard he scrubs,
won't come clean;
can't give into the senseless, ceaseless
screaming roaring from the pit of his stomach,
stuck tight at the back of this throat,
that if let loose would no doubt rip him and those around him asunder;
can't give into the weariness,
which wishes to engulf him
in the wake of what he's done,
what the beast inside him,
once kept so stealthily under lock and key,
until it was awakened,
like sleeping beauty with a simple kiss,
the kiss of a bullet grazing his skull;
can't give in to the madness,
sweet, dark madness
bubbling up from the dim well of his belly,
mixing with the corroding acid eating away at its lining,
leaving a line so thin it hadn't been difficult to cross,
had offered no resistance whatsoever to the wild inferno
sputtering inside him awaiting the right trigger
to ignite it to a full-blown conflagration;
can't give in to the desperate plea for forgiveness
he longs to seek, but knows he will be unable to engender,
undeserving as he is of its gentle caress,
its ability to free him
from the heavy burden he will,
for the rest of his life, bear even
unto the grave;
can't give in to the simple words of a conscious cleansing confession:
I did it, I killed Claudia.
Because every time he remembers her face,
it is hovering over him as he sleeps,
prince charming felled by the witch's evil cunning,
a poisoned apple that stole his life away.
Reviews and insight are welcome.