He walked into the parlour, grey suit, perfect fit,
hugging his bulging muscular figure in the right way
His hair trimmed and eyes a grey storm,
he smiled as he walked in,
a smile that never reached his eyes,
that failed to touch his soul,
a smile for the masses,
for the people who stood in front of him,
the people who expected him to....
It was the cultured way
A way to show friendliness,
to show peace, love, accommodation and everything nice
"You look lovely today sir.... You must give me the contacts to your tailor," He said looking him up and down in pure envy
"Come! You must meet my daughter," She said,
her eyes roaming his body like a predator watching her prey
"Ha ha ha... You are so funny... maybe later we could..."
She winked, brushing up against his arm,
her eyes undressing him as he stood
But he brushed it off politely
now of course, remember? smile, be friendly, laugh at their jokes, nothing to make them think you a prude
"We can plan a date,"
" maybe next time"
"I have a very early morning dear,"
"I shall definitely ring you in the morning,"
Gentleman-like right?
That's the way to go about it chap, just right yes?
Half of the room wanted him,
the other half wanted to be him
but they do not know the war within,
the pain those stormy grey eyes hide,
They would never understand the nights...
curled up tight like a ball on his own bathroom floor
The bloody spots on the wall as he tried desperately to clean up
The broken hands, bandaged with blood soaked into the linen
No one saw the demons that surround him,
that told him he is not enough
That urged him to stop believing
The voices, soft and loud at the same time
A celebrated marathon champion outruns fame, addiction, and grief—until death becomes the only finish line.
