Being Yours Part III: The King is Dead

The table is round and the chair is square, as the two of them fold together, fold together, mingle slowly and form the base essence of your throne. For you are the kind, with your mad eyes, your soft smile that's often pressed to mine with a feeling I'd like to place as possessive desperation.
But I'm often wrong, though. I'm often wrong.
You smile like a madman and kiss me like a false fool, trapped in charred love. Because something's wrong. Something's wrong.
Your shirt is green, forest green, a poison that makes me want to scrape it off my tongue and bury it. I need to bury it down within the confines of the fields.
And I know the words before you've said them, because your body has done all the talking for you. Even though you don't know it.
You sit bored, slumped, chewing your words like an animal as you prepare to spit, hold it back and chew again while trying to phrase it all in a semi-polite manner. But you are the king, even if you don't realize it. Even if you don't care about your own immortality and the power you carry over me.
You are the king and you are bored, finished, tired of pretending you are an actor to match my pace as I stumble, trip and find myself sprawled out beneath your feet, ready to lick your boots, kiss your lips, and scrub myself raw in an attempt to clean my skin to your pleasing. I am always ready, I am always ready, I am, I am.
But you don't need a fool, a jester, a submissive of a lover crawling at your feet. You are the kind, and the king needs a queen in a faerie-tale book of sexist romance. Romance of first love, special love, love you've never held for me.
So I leave, I leave before you can tell me what I think you're about to say. I leave before you can tell me the truth.

Being Yours Part II: Gardener Kisses

I need to cry, collapse, collapse, knock myself senseless against the trunks if this forest. I'm crying, crying, drowning, frowning, sobbing, down, Collapse.
I don't want to feel you hands on me anymore. But they are, they are.
Your fingers are trailing my skin, catching the edge of my shirt, tugging, pulling, straightening my body that refuses to stand any longer.
I love your lips against mine, your fingers, your fingers in mine, my hair, crawling under the fabric of my clothes as if to attempt to unlock some forbidden door. And you're there, kissing me, kissing me senseless. Kissing me goodbye, kissing me as if yo make it a more jagged wound than it already is.
You whisper but I don't listen. And I regret it. I regret it as your soft hands leave mine, trace my lips once, not twice then vanish.
You vanish and I now know, even more than before, that I'm a fool. I'm your fool, your jester, your flower that pushed to hard and tried to blossom before its season.
I only tried to become a broken blossom for you and failed in the end, for the gardener can tell when the seeds are bad. These seeds are bad and the garden of this body and mind are now rotting.
I'm now falling apart.

Being Yours Part I: Harvest

I can't hear you.
I can't touch you.
I can't taste your excess as it covers my face, plugging up my nose, mouth and ears until I've stopped breathing. I've stopped breathing.
I can't see you, let my eyes carve themselves across your skin, devour the scars and blemishes until I'm blind. I'm blind.
I can't smell your scent as it chokes me back and strangles me with soft tendrils of desire whispering around my neck.
I can't be with you anymore for you're still in possession of my heart, in all its broken pieces.
I can't, I can't, I can't.
I can't love you anymore.
I can't be with you anymore.
I can't let myself flower, bloom and self combust spontaneously into seed. Because you've already weeded this garden, pocketed the seeds and turned towards a new profession.

Roses

inspired by a poem by Roswell George Mills.

I want to give you roses
Red against the pale semblance
Of your joy
Now black against the hours

I want to give you roses
Carved in the vibrant madness
Of the soft whispers
Of an empty chamber

I need to give you roses
Wrapped in silver and
The memories of dead songs
Ever winding through the clock

I'm running through the florist
Scaling walls of a false jungle
Built upon the coldness of false means
Ever singing
Ever falling
Ever shredding the dry, dead
Falling petals

I wanted to give you roses
Sprinkled red and painted white
While burning blue against
The crushing of the sea

Arabela

I used to rip my mother’s flowers apart. She’d place them in large vases around the house, as if they could create a false sense of peace. I would shred the flowers and leaves, breaking off the thorns surrounding them. Then Arabela would break the vase and grind the pieces into the dirt with rocks, decimating them and destroying all evidence so it could never be used as a weapon against us.
Do you believe in heaven? They say it’s breathtaking, blooming with flowers stretching out across the hills. I can imagine their scent, so intoxicatingly strong like poison on my lips. It’s too much of a good thing, in my opinion.
I used to know a place that looked like heaven, with flowers and everything. During summer, the scent of them would wrap around your senses at night and choke you with a passion. Petals would wither and die, turning into a dirty mulch on the ground.
If heaven is a garden, then I wonder what hell is? What type of hidden fires burn there, determined to destroy my feelings and watch them burn to ash, while twisted smoke rises?
That house was paradise on the outside, but you could hear the wind screaming as you stood on the hillside and laid flowers upon your lover’s grave. You could walk through the graveyard for miles, and never find an exit. There was no escaping from our little handmade prison, and whenever the wind began to howl, we were happy. Happy because it hid the screaming and the crying.
Arabela was always bleeding. I used to feel pain just by watching, because she took the beatings that were meant for me. I tried to kiss the pain away, but that only smeared the blood across my lips, leaving a more permanent stain within me.
Arabela was the one who read me to sleep, brushed my hair, and held my hand. Arabela was my world growing up, and now she’s gone.
After she left, I went out into the garden and ripped up all the carnations. I chopped the heads off and ate the petals, as if by doing so, I could make her stay with me. I tried to assimilate her into me and make her live again, to rewind time and start over.
I hit rewind.
Again.
And again. Until my mind was going crazy because I knew there was no way to get her back.
Both paradise and hell are empty now. And the flowers are all rotting.

Waking Up Part II

It was dark when I awoke. No light was visible, and all I could hear was the soft sound of your breathing. In and out, in and out… so gently that I knew you were asleep.
I could feel the old, worn sheets beneath me, and the blankets were wrapped around me like a serpent. The serpent was going to kill me. That was certain.
Your arm fit perfectly around my waist. For some reason, women’s bodies seem to fit perfectly with things. Maybe that’s why they keep making musical instruments after our hips. We’re just the right shape.
I fit perfectly with you. I could feel your arm over top of my ribs, and the way our legs were tangled together. I couldn’t see anything, though. That feeling was getting stronger the longer I laid there and listened to your breathing.
It was dark, and then I began to panic.

I couldn’t see. The light was too strong. I’d shut the bathroom door so I wouldn’t wake you up.
I couldn’t wake you up. I couldn’t face you, not after what I’d done.
I threw up into the sink, but I had nothing to give, only bile as I attempted to get rid of the taste in my mouth. I turned on the tap and tried to wash it all down the sink.
When I looked up, I noticed the marks covering my body. Everywhere.
I let out a strangled scream, but caught it as I fell down onto the floor. The tile was cold, and the white reflected back into my eyes was impersonal. I couldn’t feel anything.
In my mind, it was still dark. I couldn’t see the lights as they blazed overhead. I couldn’t feel the tile beneath me, despite the fact that I was naked.
I was naked.
It was still dark and I could hear your voice, but I didn’t want to listen to the words. I didn’t want to remember what you’d told me last night.
I could still feel you, though, as your presence wrapped around me. I heard my heartbeat in my ears as it thudded in dull repetition. Bu-dum, bu-dum… over and over, over and over, as it became interwoven with your voice.
I remembered you saying that you loved me, even though you knew I was using you.
I was using you, and that thought made me try to throw up again.
I was naked, and in the bathroom mirror, I could see all the hickies you’d left on me.
Leftover reminders of last night.

You were still sleeping. I tried to move quietly as I searched around the room for my clothes. My jeans were in tatters from the climb up to your window, and the rest of my clothing was soaked from last night’s rain.
I couldn’t stop staring at you as I struggled into my clothes. You were sprawled across the bed without a care. Your hair was a circular tangle, and along your skin, I could see the marks I’d left.
All along your back and arms were scratches from my nails. On your neck was something that resembled a bite mark.
My breathing was becoming more and more irregular as I fought back the desire to start screaming. I wanted to break something, to rip my heart out and stomp on it. Maybe if I could hurt myself, I could make it up to you, because I knew that I was going to rip your heart out.
You were naked.
And I’d been naked, though I was trying to erase that fact as I dressed, attempting to hide the filth I could see growing along my skin.

I could feel the room around me. The wood floor beneath my feet, the old bookshelf filled with a child’s library, the bed with the covers rolled all into a tangle.
I could see myself in the mirror on the wall, and my reflection looked wrong. I looked like a girl. I looked like a mess. I looked like somebody’s lover who was leaving.
And you were my lover, lying there on the bed, as I got ready to run from you.
I could see Eden.
I could see paradise.
I could hear you say that you loved me. My brain repeated your voice over and over, until my screams poured over it and drowned the earth surrounding me with all its flowers.
You said you loved me.
You said you loved me, and I was waking up.
I woke up from a game you’d been playing with me, because you knew I would never, could never love you back.
And I was running.

It was dark, and the room was empty now as I shut the door behind me. Karissa was in the hall, and if she was shocked, she didn’t say anything. She pulled me away from you and got rid of me in the politest fashion possible.
It was dark, and all I could hear was my breathing.
It was dark, and I let the panic take over me because now I couldn’t wake you. My delayed reaction had started, and I couldn’t stop it.
I’d finally woken up and walked into a nightmare.

Waking Up Part I

I want to sleep
long, without disturbance,
as I’m wrapped up in an angel.
I can feel the feathers
of those wings pressing down
with a smothering affect
of warmth, and I find
that I don’t want to wake up
anymore.