There is nothing worse than an apology that comes with blame. You’re sorry that I took it the wrong way. You’re sorry that I chose to be wounded by the really awful thing you said. You’re sorry that I felt that way. You’re sorry that I’m too sensitive to handle a little, light mistreatment. It’s a sequence, a formula that never fails. You tell me that you’re sorry, but your apology always carries a knife, and the knife has always been fond of my throat. You coast by on concocted ideas about how I’m to blame, for having a very human reaction to being treated inhumanely, and I don’t say a word. I just wait, and wait, and wait, for the familiar feeling of the knife on my neck.
I will know true love, for sure, when it crosses my path, deep inside bright, blinding eyes that will push me to write, and leave me insightful about what real beauty has always been. It has always been you, love, whoever you are, it has always been shallow, sitting in the lines around your eyes, sleeping on your imperfect skin, and how each scar and dent is, (dare I say it?) heaven sent (I dare. I dare for you.) It has always been you. You, the one my heart pictured as I sent the seeds of dandelions to the cerulean sky. You, the familiar voice in my fantasies as I bid farewell to the flames atop various, delicious birthday cakes. You, the long, languishing lullaby of longing that has plagued my dreams and pushed their way from my pen to my pages. You. It has always been you, but the question is, my illustrious, inspiring muse, where on Earth are you?
There is a song that I don’t know, because my voice has not been boxed into my throat, she floats free from my bedroom window, soars across stages, so unaware of her security, but there are places, and there are beautiful voices that know it’s melody all to well.
It is a song of captured chanteuses, stuck behind storied walls, their voices are innocent, but imprisoned, in case they effect “helpless” men, whimsical, wistful refrains are restricted, to save weak, impotent arseholes from their irrational fears. So called strong men, screaming and scrambling at sweet, soft songs, from the alleged weaker sex. There is a song that I don’t know, it’s unfamiliar but so disarming, a defiant drum beat under the sunny siren calls, the song of the captured chanteuses, who must be set free.
I am persistently pessimistic, a poisoned little poet, and my tears are as blue as I will make you feel, if you spend long enough in my orbit. Nobody understands me, but Morrissey, but I hate him, and I’ll hate you too, until you text me back, leave you on read for ten minutes, so you can’t read between the lines and realise that I’m desperate for your attention. I astral project away from my problems, but I always arrive back to remind my rain showers that they will one day end.