She was the blooming flower in a Summer field,
and the cause of that chill down your spine at a grave.
The burning sensation in your throat after you inhale,
moonlit streets winding through the dreaming city.
She was the pain in your chest as you emptied a bottle,
thinking about the purpose of life without love.
The rotten taste on your tongue after biting your words,
wrapping your mind around the butchered opportunity.
She was the cement that built your kingdom of trust,
and the reason every inch would come tumbling down.
A speck of sincerity left behind as you stare across the pond,
fingering your carton of Marlboro ever so aimlessly.
She was the misconstrued identity of an imaginary woman,
the metaphor you used when explaining it to your friends.
The excuse to never leave your bedroom or explore the world,
as she sucked the air from your lungs, the youth from your flesh.
She's the stars in the sky, the wolf howling at the moon,
the temptation itching at your neck as you listen outside.
Beneath the surface, she wasn't only a lie...
but a misconception of your inability to tell the truth.
She was the flare in a night where insects sang,
the witch playing with black magic behind natural beauty.
Captivating children with promises of divinity...
manipulating hearts with assurance of eternal unity.
She was the belief of a realm far darker than our own,
the creature swimming in the deep end, scaring us away.
A broken record lodged further into your chest
than the decaying fist that once beat.
She's the insecurity that drives you onto the ledge,
the wind pushing you closer and closer toward the edge.
An exiled memory finding its way back into your conscious,
dragging decades of garbage to soften your fall.
She's Amanda, neither human nor alive,
just the voice in your head that writes this poem.
You're changing on a road that's covered in debris,
but she's here to make sure your days turn to nights.
And vice versa.
