We began in an Indian summer.
As I was counting the shades of green in your eyes,
you were watching the light bounce off
our round-table confessional.
I was frantically digging up the words,
and you were observing,
outside the hole I was now waist-deep in,
with that lingering gaze
and an inquisitive smirk,
worn like a well-tailored suit.
With bleeding fingernails and bits of Earth stuck in my hair,
I finally emerged.
My throat was raw
and I could hardly talk
for fear of choking on the fossils
lodged between my teeth.
Once my tongue finally found it’s way past the hardened bones,
I revealed
my
deepest
and
darkest
to
you.
I was in love,
and it was only a matter of time,
before you would become
my shameful secret.
It was only a matter of time before I’d stuff you under my bed,
with all my other “lost” things.
Unfinished poetry, tubes of red lipstick, torn dresses, ceramic coffee mugs, dead flowers, bloody razor blades, apple cores, teddy bears with missing eyes, and bent-up, paper crosses.
It was a lot, but I could make room for you.
Little did I know,
you wouldn’t rot like my half-hearted collections.
Little did I know,
I’d have to make room for me, too
in
there.
We made a name for ourselves in the dark,
with our bodies intertwined
and our hearts protesting
“not close,
never close
enough.”
We carried on like that,
with all my “lost” things
and without any light.
And now we’re very, very, very sick
and just as hungry
for at least a flickering candle,
some air to breathe
and room to stretch our aching limbs.
And you’ve been begging for awhile now,
for me to let you out,
for a better fate than all
my twisted artwork
under there
with us,
because the dust feels like glass in your lungs.
But I’d whimper and cry,
and say:
“Let’s hide out,
just a bit longer…
it hurts too much out there,
don’t you remember?”
And you’d hang your head,
and your eyelashes would flutter
and you would sleep.
Sleep
for
days.
And now,
I’m done watching you suffer,
so would you like to come out with me?
I’ll leave it all behind,
and we’ll make love
on top of the bed
while my artwork,
the “lost” things
lay underneath in envy.
With your hand in my hair and your lips at my neck,
we will conquer the world.
