My Guitar Lies Bleeding In My Arms
The music bled out of her, hot chords splashing to the cold, hardwood floor. An incendiary torrent of bloody riffs and licks spilling from the open gashes at her wrists. I let the crimson tide of inspiration wash over me, a baptism in pain and suffering that would inspire a million songs of teenage heartache and depression. The muse would visit me like this in my darkest moments, promising me everything; her supple, dead body speaking of pleasures never fulfilled, but ultimately all she delivered was emptiness.
She was so young, she should have been full of life, but the pale skin stretched too tight over sharp bones and the deep, dark ringed, sullen eyes spoke of her pathetic, wasted existence. She made me sing of lost and unrequited love, as my guitar gently wept for her. My heart would break, filled with grief and remorse, every night that I lay with her wicked six-stringed beauty.
She was a cold, unforgiving lover, who would whisper dreams of glory in my ears, and then leave me with my sad and empty life of abject anonymity. Her love blinded me and cut me deeply to the core, with its teenage fears of loss of innocence and the dark desires of approaching adulthood.
I looked down at my blood stained white guitar but she was all that I could see, sharp, minor.