The light leaves my head like honey oozing out of the bottle
Replaced with the vinegar of your sweet voice
The trinkets that danced in our peripherals during Friday afternoon art classes
Have gained a prepubescent arrogance
They jeer now, feeding on the disillusionment of growing up
2am is no longer late, where are the stars we once reached for?
Our red roses and pink flowers
Dried and discarded, hanging upside down on the wall
Fame and sparkles, oh what joy!
Just wait a sec, don’t forget!
Cling onto those large comforts of idealised lifestyles, luscious, lavish and oh so silky.
Day and light symbolised truth and clarity
But now the church smells like vodka, status is an expensive blindfold, and the single most terrifying thing exists inside my own mind.
Does the day stifle the truth of the night or does the day live in spite of the night?
Because when dusk falls, and you’re alone driving home on the highway from work, or alone in your hard bed under a pyramid of laundry, or alone wedged in a hot mess of dancing drunk bodies, the night interrogates you.