I write about you far too much, Clemmy

i.

Clemmy, every time I saw you, I came away with a silver residue all over me. It looked like fairy dust but it was just that temporal mix of scars, aged like grey hair, before getting the chance to live. You blended all the colours on my skin - you could rival Monet: the purple bruises and red raw pinches pieces - that were so ugly to me - were always so beautiful to you. You were the living embodiment of impressionism because your whole life was a series of glimpses.

ii.

You would flit about (wingless), never staying more than a week in anybody's bed. You screwed every star in the sky, some of them could have been planets but you never stuck around long enough to find out.

Do you remember when you painted that poor coward's back silver and demanded that he beat upon his chest and roared? You may have crammed the moon between his vertebrae but he was born with a yellow stomach. He could never have compared to you. 


iii.

Everybody says that colourful characters are so much more interesting than angels but I think that it's just something rebels tell themselves. people thought you were an angel. That's why you killed yourself; you couldn't cope with the world. The ones who didn't understand called you 'fragile.' The ones who did understand knew that was bullshit.

Even the moon was a mouse compared to you, Clem. her face was so pallid and your starlight skin would defy any attempt at an eclipse. You were more fierce than the jaundiced, sickly sun could ever be.


iv.

When I tried to pick you up, you fell apart like wet sand. do dead bodies whisper? Because I can always hear your voice, it keeps trying to break down my cerebral walls. but sanity never mattered to you, did it? You called yourself Bohemian but the rest of the world called you mad as you apologized to the grass after walking across it and begged the world for forgiveness when your books blocked him out. The rain was so jealous when you ripped your reflection from your fingertips and actually began living that he started appearing every day.

v.

You had a gentle coarseness about you: an optimistic pessimism, a hopeful cynicism. people would purse their lips at you (the ones who didn't utterly adore you) but you let them dislike you because they were just other irrelevant objects that you never cared for. They thought you were odd because you asked questions like, 'how long do you think we can survive in this inferno we've inherited from Dante?'

vi.

Your bones cracked when you walked like the tiny voice of a hollow songbird but I'll immortalize you: I'll build you body out of sticks, maybe once I've mastered your smile I'll no longer need a roof, I'll just sit beneath the stars every night because they remind me of the freckles on your right shoulder.

Every sorrow forced my throat into my lungs, swelling them to the size of gravestones that crumbled with every desperate grasp for life. So I'll dream myself sick of you until the pictures in my head become nothing more than colourless splinters, chiselled away by exhausted memories.