Someone mentioned your name yesterday,
and my nails dug into my palm,
the marks still present as I struggled out of a dream of you this morning,
asking myself why my impulse is still to punish myself for your presence in my subconscious when I am supposedly free?
The trains are fucked this morning and all I can do is recall how you insisted on driving,
donning a cool, calm persona as you pressed your fingertips to the wheel,
your nails digging into the leather as you find yourself aflame,
your eyes had stared a little too long at my legs,
and your lip was carved by your teeth.
We’re not so different, you and me.
I’ve got my ex husband on line one,
asking if things can be fixed,
and I tap my pen against the oak of my desk,
making a wish as I watch my phone shuffle through songs by starry eyed girls who saw things that my eyes aren’t capable of conceiving.
I wish that I was a mother.
He asks for me back but he couldn’t give me that,
and after I gave him everything and gave nothing to my own desires, I am…
…damn irritated, honestly.
He doesn’t want me.
He wants a good wife who cooks him hearty meals and cries just as he’s about to come, because he’s into that, because he’s watched too much porn,
and I’ve been too far gone for far too long to pretend properly anymore.
It doesn’t have to be me, specifically,
but I’m around, so he’s around too,
asking what I’ll do without him,
a bicycle salesman at the bottom of the ocean.
My mindless obedience is romanticised in his memories,
and he calls,
not for me,
but for the dream that I was when he was losing his mind beneath the covers,
committing crimes to a girl who would never tell,
unless she had a record to sell,
in which case,
it encased her sweet throat,
a rosy, righteous melody that made you shudder if you listened loud enough to truly understand,
but nobody ever does these days.
On line two is the last shred of my sanity,
and I’m sorry,
but I think I’m hanging up on everyone.
Much like Pandora,
I’ve opened a box,
started something I can’t finish,
so, now I’m staring at a starry eyed reflection,
trying to focus on not falling through the floor,
because I told myself a secret that I can’t take back.
I can’t swallow it again.
Though I am gentle with my aching oesophagus,
she simply says “no”.
She has suffered enough,
covering up for me,
and she won’t do it anymore.
All the things I’ve thought to myself are now painted on the walls in my blood.
I used to hear them from the box,
a pulsing, tempting drum beat that shook through to the floor and whispered to the walls,
but I would simply say “no”,
and pretend that all I heard was soft symphonies and the songs of well behaved birds.
The birds no longer sing for me.
The orchestra are hiding in that old box.
Perhaps they’ve gone to somebody else that needs them,
naive in their belief that I can survive my secret on my own.
I stare at my starry eyed reflection,
rejecting her, in all ways,
but holding her hand in mine as we venture through the door,
because if the birds won’t return,
I’m all that she’s got.
A long gone songbird told me that it gets better,
but I think that she may have been lying.
It’s easy to spot a lie a mile off when you are a lie yourself,
and the sweeter it sounds,
the harder it is to swallow,
when the sun rises,
and everything is still as dark as you left it the night before.
I thought I’d play it cool, but I melted.
I thought I’d be strong, but my will is as weak as my body,
and now I am in a pen of my passion,
imprisoned and… alarmingly into it.
I’m a kissing cousin to Clarice Starling,
caught up in my love as the second book unfolds,
stung by how right it feels to be the ride or die of someone so wrong for me,
not unaware, but uninterested in all the reasons to desist.
It gets harder and harder to hide how little interest I have in leaving your bed every morning.
37 trillion cells in my body can’t be wrong.
They call to you at all hours of the night,
I am kept awake unless I rest in your arms,
which I find a little charming,
looking, with lust in the mirror,
in love with myself,
because how you kissed me last night still tastes so sweet on my lips.
I had a dream that she stopped loving me.
The sky was pretty when she sent me away,
not a tear from the clouds, who were braver than I,
but I left an ocean on her shoulder,
my claws deep in the flesh of her palm as they pulled me from her and down into the abyss.
I didn’t mean to be a monster.
I spent so long keeping myself at bay,
but the truth is full of terror, and it tears it’s way out of well meaning skin eventually,
and then, you become a monster.
It’s not her fault.
Nobody wants to have a monster as a daughter,
but she does,
and now I dream about her looking at me as I do.
I wake in tears,
wondering if she lies when she says that she loves me as I am.
It was just a dream.
It was just a dream,
but a monster still stares back from the mirror.