He was the disease in a rotten tooth. He lay, brittle and broken, on the floor of the home that would never be his. Bruises stood out like coffee spilled on white napkins and a blackness grew roots in his heart and expanded. He was a boy playing with shattered glass that cut himself one too many times. He was the child of the damned.
He looked for life in all the wrong places. He found scrapes and scratches better than Bloody Mary's but the blood wouldn't stop flowing. He found solace in the writings of dead poets. Blackness dug claws into his mind and wrapped it's tail around his eyes. He was a lie written in brail.
He was the whispers of past promises broken. He found water easier to swallow than air. The night nipped at his lungs like cigarette smoke, and all he viewed where shades of gray. He was the quiet in the morning. He was the screaming at evening.
He felt like the barbs on a rose that pricked his fingers. He spoke like the clinking of bottles. He was the fly in a woman's wine. He was the edge of a razorblade. He was the blood of a dying man. He was the sound of defeat.