Styx

I am struggling.

In the shadow of his past I stand small, a smudge on the canvas that she has covered in her dishonesty, in her betrayal, in her selfishness. In every nerve of my shaking body I want to scrape her away from his once clean, untainted surface. He took me into his bed but still loves her. And I am sick to the depths of my core. He will hold me in the night when I wake gasping from my nightmares, and his warmth blankets me in his scent and in his protection, but he does not want me. He can't want me. There is no more room for my heart to be spattered onto him like her self indulgence has stained him. Unconditionally I look at him and see such overwhelming worth that my lungs flutter and I wonder to myself how I could possibly be forgotten by the crushing gravity that keeps me in such an abated state. His words towards me suggest hope. My significance in this way is neither confirmed nor denied, but no matter the possibilities I feel my body failing in disappointment and in rejection, of which no amount of defibrillation could revive. This purgatory between heaven and hell is swallowing me whole and its all I that can do but to wait patiently for my sentencing, to receive either Mestophele's welcome or the agonizing flames of a fate I dread. I hold myself back with the knowledge of breaking points and limits of pressure; his are fragile and I cannot afford to threaten the solidarity of this bond. The serotonin has swept me away in its synapsing waves into this unending sea and the oxytocin has pulled me under into its ravaging currents to lay me to rest within the depths of its stomach. And as the vessel of my soul rests in the ruins of shipwrecks and cities, Charon will row his boat overhead at the surface, carrying on as he always has and forever will. 

Author's Note

Any review would be greatly appreciated, thank you!