Do you not smell the stench?
"Get closer to me, you're not in the frame" you say, pulling her to you as the camera clicks away.
"What a cosy getaway, I'm glad all of you were able to make it", our friend, no - your friend now, says.
I stand in front of you, holding up the weight of something dead.
You don't look me in the eye, I am not in the room. You seem content.
My friend, she seems happy too.
Wine drunk and dazed, draped in everyone's loving embrace, I watch the comradery unfold.
Do they not see it? Can they not smell the stench of something dead?
Do they not feel my presence? And that of the burden they left me to carry?
If not, then do they not feel even my absence?
I now sit right in front of the balcony, half tempted to scream and wreck havoc upon your lovely company. Half tempted to open the door, take this weight with me and set myself free, float in the air and look up at the moon and say, "hey, you're just like me, waning and floating in mid air all lonely"... But I'm not lonely, I have this weight with me and I know it will pull me down. The weight you left me with, the gravity that you created in your sincere promises, a mirage i believed in. A friendship meant for life, but so sad it died so young, what happens to the weddings I'll never attend and the conversations in the dead of the night that will never happen?
And there you are with your new piercings and new friends, new boyfriends and indifference. And there she is, my old friend, hair curled just like her mouth, naturally bitter without any heat. Unhappy with one thing or another, just how i remember. Tell me, does her other face scowl too?
The one that decided I'm dead to her while the other wiped away tears it once rained on me. When both her faces had no one but me to ask, "why, why do they all leave me?"
And now here I am, pruned little stripes on my face when i cried the same thing but both her faces were too drunk to care. When you were too busy because friends come as they do always, for you, and a dead one was nothing to worry for.
Dorian Gray, your painting is now with me. For all your charm and beauty, your painting is a withering monstrosity.
Dorian, I saw you slipping poison for months into its mouth. I saw you apologise till your tongue and get on, shook your legs free as it begged and crawled to you for life.
Dorian, if you just wanted it dead, why didn't you have the spine to kill it? Instead you let it fester, sickening green from your poison, it screamed for mercy and I gave it with a shot of bullet or two. And now I'm in hiding for the murder you plotted, I'm the one with blood in my hands while you hold you masquerade balls in your shiny new life as if you don't live in one everyday.
Dorian, your painting isn't framed, your strokes were cruelty and the art is the corpse of our friendship and now I'm dragging it with me wherever i go. Dorian you're a prodigy, I wonder how many of your works exists. Will l meet another with a corpse around their neck just like the one you gave me? How many murderers of mercy have you made of your company?
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