I played with fire,
I woke up, drowning.
It’s just the way of the world, my love,
one day you’re an empress, the next you are empty,
but last night, you said you loved me,
and I ruled the world as a ghost for a moment,
crown, trembling atop my tresses as you undressed me with nervous, nimble fingers.
I could say “no” but what good would it do?
We both know the way that I want it,
and we both know that you don’t care,
and, perhaps it’s my problem, for playing along as you preyed on my loneliness and lassitude.
I just wanted to be held until the world let me go,
and you were just there.
She’s hiding somewhere in lost memories,
lips lost behind her hands so she won’t make a sound,
while the earth keeps turning round.
Not for a minute.
You’ve got plans.
I wish I could call her tomorrow,
say that it all turned out just fine,
but she knows every inch of my voice,
she knows when I lie,
even if I do it for the right reasons.
You wrote something really good last weekend.
People should hear it.
You were born in the city.
You were raised in the country.
Your heart never strayed from the sea,
and your eyes never strayed from the lightning in the sky,
Little girl don’t you cry,
‘cause I’m willing to lie.
everything was fine in the end.
Is my life over?
Is this all there is?
Am I lost in the thunder,
thrown into dismay as the world crashes to pieces around me,
or am I just hormonal?
I wish that I had been a braver babydoll three years ago,
and stepped into the sweetness of the sun,
but there was so much to distract me,
so I could forget the scorch of silence as I turned my key and stepped into an empty house,
instead of the sun.
Is this another one of those times where I am asking difficult questions of my soul,
or am I just menstruating, and assigning too much meaning to what it does to my body?
I have a lot to cry about.
failed remodelling of my life,
tension headaches and the typical tyranny of time,
and the ever present reminder that it slips away from me, and my body clock with every trip around the sun (that I failed to just jump into).
It is a blue Christmas, in July.
I am eating ice cream and buying myself gifts that I cannot afford,
because my body is crying at my failure to make a mother out of her,
or a wife,
or just something to be proud of,
and she stared with such affection at the sun that I had no choice but to distract her with something shiny.
They are tempted by my temper,
because my exotic flair makes it feel like passion,
like in a French magazine,
since sweet sixteen,
and further back,
in the fables of my life that I have forgotten,
I was rotten to the core,
storming through each day with a smile and my rage.
I dream of diamonds,
around my neck and down the throats of all those that I dislike,
Queen of the pampered Princesses,
running through benefactors for nefarious purposes,
never satisfied by their platinum cards and best wishes.
Last night as I strolled through the shopping centre,
I saw a little pair of shoes, painted blue for my little one,
feeling so blue because they had tightly tied laces and left a taste in my mouth, without my lips even opening.
Ghosts were following me again,
the things that money cannot buy will always allude me, they never let me live,
living in my bones and setting fire to my soul.
There are geese gliding across the rising sun as I recall last night’s dream,
boil a kettle that will never be poured,
pouring over my seamless, endless era of madness,
because I truly want it all.
The streetlights switch off,
and I switch on the siren waterworks.
Good morning glum one,
it’s a great day to be bounding through life with as much of a smile as you can salvage.
The world’s a little savage,
and the passage of time is sublimely snappy, when you really don’t need it to be,
but you are awake,
and you are breathing,
and that’s something.