Stormy skies surrounded the seething sea as it rushed around us,
waspish waves that grow tall and then crash as the wind whistles and nature bristles with indignation.
The boat is a beautiful one,
blood red paint against the children of the trees in the forest where we had our first kiss. We bore this vessel,
and then we sent her into the incensed ocean,
just to see if she’d survive,
and though the water is rough,
and the wind is wrathful,
she still smiles and sways to and fro,
as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.
I am behind bars at the bar,
parading myself like a prize at the fair,
but my intended audience is never there,
just this one guy, with grey hair and grey skin who always wants to buy me drinks,
fumbles his fingers across my pendant and mumbles pedantic, pretentious nonsense about how his soul is pink,
printed with my name,
and my eyes go on a journey from his smug face to the back of my head.
He tells me that my beautiful eyes are wasted on the beautiful girl across the room (he uses a slur to describe her, but I will call her beautiful),
and half of me thinks he’s right,
because me having a flacid fan club around me all night seems to have given her the wrong impression about who I am intending to attract,
and then I am right back where I started from,
night after night,
bored to baby blue tears as he babbles on, despite my blatant disinterest.
I have been polite,
and I have been puerile.
I have said it in so many languages to try and show the girl across the room that my tongue is cultured and intelligent,
but she can’t hear me over the blithering idiot that haunts a home he will never belong in.
It doesn’t matter what I say,
because he sees a pretty dress as a pretty clear sign that I’m just “going through a phase” and he sees himself as some kind of King of conversion therapy,
(It is just a piece of fabric, and he is just an unnecessary man…)
so he persists, undeterred by my constant resistance,
because the world has always belonged to boring men, so he doesn’t know any better, and women never know their own minds anyway, according to his phallic philosophy.
Your lips tasted of candy apples after I kissed them,
as if the sweetness of your spirit was spilling from within,
searching for sanctuary somewhere inside of me,
and for the first time, finally, I was open.
I was a weary wanderer in a desolate desert and you were a mirage.
I made my home in a moment of nirvana,
and I decided that I would cut off my legs,
so that I’d have an excuse to stay the night.
I decided that I wanted to hold you for as long as I used to hold a grudge,
hoping that the peace you impart on my soul would thaw the thoughts that kept me prisoner.
I wanted be ether in the air.
I wanted to ask you, with no hesitation, to breathe me in,
let me be deep within your skin like the rapturous rain of April showers and how they cling to you, long after we are inside and dry.
Your blue eyes, royal as your blood, burned right through me,
and I wanted you to spill across my slain body, until she was new and alive again,
I wanted you to show me how to breathe without it feeling like an obligation,
I wanted you to introduce me to tomorrow, your slender hand sleeping on my naked shoulder as your phone cried for attention on the bedside table,
and you grumble, just a little as you struggle from slumber and answer it, while wading through the pile of clothes below us to find your sports bra.
I wanted you to remind me of how content the moon looked as she watched us fall asleep every evening,
with her lovesick eyes and her hopeless hopes for the two of us.
I just… kissed you, again, and you tasted like tranquility.
My lover tied me to the radiator,
because I was too much trouble to be free,
but the trouble was, bound wrists didn’t make me any less irresistible,
so I still dripped poison into her perception, until I drove her insane.
In a sweet, sing song voice,
I simply asked when she might decide to let me go,
and that set her off,
across the bedroom she launched,
back arched like a cat with a taste for troubled prey,
and there I stayed, smiling as if my mouth were full of unmelted butter.
This is my story,
wayward words and violet verse,
pages of preemptive pain that bleeds through to the binding,
and I’m blinded by it, unable to see what’s possible for me.
I’ve never been one for trusting,
never really thought I was deserving of a task like that,
but maybe I’m more than I once thought I could be.
There’s a chandelier up in the place where I lost my scarf last night,
and the floor was sticky, slick when the bass dropped,
I thought about the year that lay before me,
and for the first time, in a long time,
I felt excited about being alive.