Sanctuary

As the dark circled around me,

as my blood was swallowed by the drain

again

One hesitation mark after another—

scorching my flesh and soul.

-

Before her,

there was only the solitude of my ripped flesh

and gauze-soaked in my poisoned blood.

Before her,

only dirt-cheap alcohol

to erase the last vestiges of self and sense.

Self and sense that reminded me,

taunted me,

how far I had slipped down,

and that all of it was my own doing.

My reckoning.

-

Then she came along.

She—my sparkling bismuth.

My sanctuary.

Me—a husk,

a worm burrowing aimlessly

through the suffocating soil of my living grave.

-

She pulled me from the grave,

quietly, solemnly.

Breathlessly,

in the quiet of the gasps,

without hesitation.

She cradled me in my grave,

and laid me in linen-soft comfort.

-

In her, I found sanctuary—

from the weight, from the burden.

Her love was not pity.

Her love was not charity.

Her love was pure.

Her love was my saviour.

-

She gave me her whole,

though I remained incomplete—

the last scratched etchings,

bloodied and imperfect,

on the wall of a cell.

Before the inmate gave way

to the call of his dark.

-

And still,

she nursed me back to something

something approaching life.

-

By her side, without hesitation.

In my sanctuary.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: So, yesterday I attempted a romantic micro that dived head-first into depravity. I am pleased with how it turned out, but I still needed to do something a bit more positive and romantic. Therefore, the above is my almost reverse, sister-companion piece to The Walk.

The name and recurring theme of a woman being a sanctuary are more than a little influenced by the iconic She Sells Sanctuary by the underrated British rockers, The Cult.