This is just the way it is.
Nestled in our nihilism,
watching Geno documentaries with dropped jaws and wide eyes.
I smoke cigarettes as you slink your hands around my waist,
not a care in the world,
not even for you,
nor for the blue aura that beats in the air,
pulsing and pushing as your eyes light up.
This is just the way it is.
You cower from what crawls across the screen,
but your doom was always fast asleep in your lap.
This is just the way I am.
You’re on the doorstep, in the moonlight,
coaxing me me from my candy land of contorted chapters,
where I awake, unable to question, and unable to experience,
just sitting in place,
bastardised beauty queen,
doing everything I can just to get through it.
I ride alone as the night falls,
and you follow along,
flying on the wind with such will that it frightens me.
Fix me if you feel like it,
or love me as life left me.
Something about this morning makes me long for rain.
A fresh fall on the lawn and the window panes as I pass from one dream to another,
your fingers clinging tightly to my waist,
drumming a sleepy, soft song as you chase me,
playfully into paradise.
You were thirty seven,
I was seventeen.
You could never resist the taste of damnation.
There’s fire under your fingertips,
and you like to burn the wings of angels as the sun rises.
You ask me to bring you a beautiful memory,
resting in restless dreams of your reckless abandon,
you like the way my lipstick smudges when my face falls to the sheets,
and you repeat it in your mind again and again as I age past being your type, but still remain in your sights.
I am thirty,
and you are old enough to know better, but also old enough to ignore what you’ve learned.
You knock on my darkened door as midnight strikes,
with roses and red lipstick,
because you miss smudged, sordid kisses on your sheets and your collar.
I watch you through the curtains,
keeping the door locked, wondering why my suffering tasted so sweet to you.
You stumble through an open door,
losing your keys to a carpet that keeps moving as you struggle to untie your shoes,
calling out my name to an empty room,
hunting through the house like a drunken blood hound.
I’m at home in my pillows and perfume,
sewing stories together as the sun rises,
you collapse against the bed with glassy eyes,
remarking that I look so inviting,
calling me your candy perfume girl, (at this point, I begin to wonder if I am the only homosexual in the room…)
your hands creeping past the safe spots and boundaries I have built in the bed we begrudgingly share.
You drink me in,
breathless and babbling nonsense,
falling into fantasy filled unconsciousness without another word,
and I lie next to you, breaking down one of my many walls,
falling asleep to the soft sound of you and your nonsense.