The January Man You come to me in my dreams, a dead man in a red, red room suspended by the neck like a waxwork, displaying the horror of your own deeds like a freak in some Victorian show. You are my Jekyll and Hyde, an angel and demon, transfixing me with your grimace, holding in your cold head the answers to my nothingness. You have been here twenty years saying nothing. Omnipresent through my days and nights, your tongue stone-cold and stuck so the words could not pass those blue lips of yours if you could find the excuses of a decent apology. Two decades of silence has said it all: if you could speak now I would cover my ears like a child.
Reason for writing:
This was written about my father who committed suicide by hanging himself when I was five years old. It deals with alot of the anger that I feel about what he did. The title comes from the fact that he died in January, along with the fact that I used to have a recurring dream about him hanging in a red room under a spotlight.
Birth sign: Not entered
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