melancholy is the stranger in the corner of the room

a prose poem narrating a protagonist's longing for more as a nihilist

Vogue magazines. Marlboro cigarette boxes. Keepsakes. Common-place journals and never completing a thought. Feeling exhausted by existing and simultaneously desiring more than just this. The vision of a goddess nesting in the golden heavens. Black leather boots and mournful winter mornings. I don’t want to get up from my bed. My fortress is calling. Barricade the doors. Melancholy is the stranger in the corner of the room. She takes her coffee with a dash of childhood nostalgia and never wanting to let go of me. I am resentful of the broad smiling faces in the pictures. Optimistic nihilism. I look forward to tomorrow, but the children are all dressed in black. It’s the day of the funeral. Devil’s bargain. Gold coins for the gods and selfish worship. I want… I want. I need. There are so many things I need. I’m famished of my pleasures. I hunger. To have and to hold. I am without possessions. Things. These things. Of what use will they be to me when I go to so see my father? But I want them. Aren’t they pretty? I am a hedonist. Filthy beast always wanting and wanting and feeling like I am lacking from wanting.  Torn magazine paper. Strewn cigarette remains. Lost things in keeping. Wrecked journals and only living long enough to ask the questions. Existing. Desiring more. A golden goddess in the golden heavens. Melancholy is the stranger in the room. And nihilism is the battery acid taste of copper coins in my greedy mouth.