Why oh why should I depart for your gardens of fay, when you cringe when you hear my tale? When you flush when I digress, when I impress, when I stress. You ask, ‘how shall I wake you from your slumber, shall I name the ways? Open your heart to me, dulcet one. You are simple and shade, my loquacious ingénue, the allowance of this panoply. ’
Oh love, if only you knew.
In lieu of hurricanes, there is the abrasive, itching, me.
That, perhaps, is far more worse. Each breath of wind promises the taste of erstwhile rhapsody. There is no music left in me.
Could you, Good Fortune, with your redolent plethora of aqua-coloured providence ever possibly understand the isolation in me? Most days I am heavy with dream, numbed from the sweet culling of the horsemen, o’ for my own apocalypse.
So then, I discuss lightly, at my own indiscretion. My halted, half of a shadow is all you shall receive.
You tremble and stutter, you would greatly so most gladly lend over fragments of your heart, in place of my own cataclysmic resolve.
Oh what a hallowed savant you are, offering over whole hammering longing breaking portions of yourself, in exchange for your idea of sanity. How shall I wear it, then, as a dress, in shades of wine and white, made of velvet and gossamer, and hush, and subside, and I shouldn’t be so selfish?
So now. So now.
Instead of seeing the cadaverous, bloodless creature that I am, I am now your saviour, your Isis, your rejuvenation. I am a mumbling damsel in necessitation, I am a soldier, I am a survivor. Realize this, I am simply an industrial accident waiting to happen, ready to trample over every trace of life that walks my way with a grin and an “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize.” (You’re struggling for air as we embrace, didn’t you recognize?)
It doesn’t make sense. I don’t make sense.
So I keep quiet.
Instead, the words I speak are of polished hodgepodge, the soft of a prince’s touch, the fifty-second relentless gentleman caller, the loving rivers, the onomatopoeia the neighbours make as their bodies wax and melt together in fiery fervour.
Instead, I stand at the offing, with the impression of harem girl, switch quick concubine, lacking fawning subservience. Instead, I am the uneasy trick of light, the edible vixen, the dulled mind. The primrose pollyanna, with vision tasting of rosemary and delilah.
Instead, instead. Why, oh why.
Let’s not breathe over this, and agree; I will harbour these secrets, and you will not ask, for some things are best left unspoken (when you could most possibly not understand)
I hope I have not created a ripple in that sanctified heart of yours.
Filed under: angry prose, cowardice | Tagged: do not love bloodless girls, GIRLS WITH GUNS
