I hope you didn’t come here for me. I’d like to kiss you thick like rich honey just to rip the sky like thunder from your chest. I am not the one you pray for, not the one who holds your breath between her legs and falls like rain. I have been here since the birth of a time forgotten, holding my hands in my hands and my tongue in my teeth. A soft succulent pool held at the tips of knives. When I move I move away, when I touch the warmth within me flares and then disintegrates. When the storms approach, the silence and the atmosphere grow heavy as vines. The blackbirds fly disoriented but they fly in clumps all together, wings beating stark up against wings.
I hope you didn’t think I was some kind of supernatural creature who keeps watch in the night, who chases monsters from underneath the bed. I can only navigate when I navigate blindness, feeling the walls along the edges of your insecurities helps push me against my own. We don’t know how to perceive sadness until we know how it tastes on the bloodied lips of a love who left every kind of offering at our feet. Until we swell with a desire so crippling it claws in our bellies as we crawl naked in the street. These are the little necks, these are the little stems, these are the undressings which weep for eternity inside the soul. We cannot always be light or darkness. Sometimes we are satellites made of eyes orbiting both. Sometimes we have to lose our minds, sever the ties between the nightmare and the scream.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 