Every now and again,
I get lost in the lustful looks you leave all across my body,
and I find myself aflame,
wondering if it would feel the same for your hands to replace your hungry eyes.
That is normally the point where I start to cry.
I’ve never been to war,
but my past has fucked me up,
and this is not love,
or even desire,
it’s my narcissistic need to be the dirty dream of someone who can’t stop themselves from saying so,
because I have a predilection for validation.
I want to be so much more than pretty, or kind of adorable,
I want to be the queen of quietening Kings,
I want to leave nothing but a shivering, writhing mess atop the throne.
You disgust me so,
but you want me, so,
I sail a little closer to the sun,
burning up in the beautiful gaze of hellfire.
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.
The poetry I write says nothing to me about my life,
because my life is preciously provincial,
still doing the same routines, no matter how I age,
writing the same stanzas again and again,
chilling but charming,
page after page,
because it doesn’t matter what I say,
my velvet voice makes it much more pleasant.
She told me that I was her favourite thing that I had ever written,
so I wrote an affectionate album across each inch of her hands with lonely lips,
kiss after kiss,
restrained and trained to taper off when it all got too much,
and it always gets too much,
because heaven is hazy and heated in a way that one can never take for too long.
She talks as if I created myself,
but truthfully, I am a creature created by life’s cruelty and God’s gawky sense of humour,
getting through it and assessing the damage when everyone else is resting,
resisting the urge to ask for a refund on the human experience,
because nobody likes a whiner.
So cynical, with so little to say,
it’s all so hideous,
so hard to hear,
the cross of the lord around the neck of a girl with feminine fingerprints across her throat,
in a chokehold of my own torment.
So little to say that isn’t sullied in sorrow,
but, oh, such a sweet little voice,