You write about me but I have to live it out in real time. You think you know me, think you own me, think you have it all on me. Arrogance. Poison aphrodisiac. Sun god in your own smoke-stained mind. But your lips can be red like berries when you want me so bad the sweat beads along your strung out neck. I want you, too, angel. I promise I do.
It’s dark in this thick wooden room. Dark when the charcoal clouds roll on in and take out the wrath of the seething skies on a blackened earth none of us deserve in light. You tell me eternal, infinite light is contained within the pierce in my eyes. All of it. Electric and screaming. I ask you where the warmth has gone. Can you see that, too, baby, tell me can you see it?
I slink from the leather chair to the hard wood floor, press my thin palms against the grain. I am imagining what it would feel like to extend my limbs outward in all directions, to be pulled apart like an ecstatic star. The Devil at my throat. The angels at my breasts. Why do these dreams come cloaked in nightmares. I talk to you in a growl. I try to tell you what I see. It isn’t light, sweetness, it isn’t light.
It’s not a fixation if it’s part of who you are. To be made of something is not to cling to it. You don’t have to. It’s all over and through you.
Do you know how many times I have tried to shake this feeling of ruin? To build myself into something which can overcome it? I look in the mirror. I shade my eyes black and unfasten my hair. Pale fingers along a pale jaw beneath the blood red moon. The fantasies begin to flash like animals at night. Stray far away from here.
You pull at the hem of my dress. You think if you could just get me wet all the other fantasies will disappear and I’ll be yours. Make me safe, make you safe. But they are not like ghosts, I’m telling you because ghosts evaporate into thin air. My fantasies are bones. The wandering keeps me vibrating along the edge, leaves me desperate. But never just leaves.