One slip, a falling trick, then she’s in his arms, a CRASH.
He traces her Picasso cheekbones. The back of his hand comes away, a smear of soft yellow glitter.
She frets about the smear. Do I still look alright? She fears.
It looks fine. But then the eyes. Can you see them? She asks. They follow her. There are so many.
He doesn’t know what to say. Can he make it up to her, in any way? He’s not sure what he did wrong.
Sometimes I do not think that I deserve to be loved.
I am strange,
I take swords to my chest, you see,
and I plunge them deep
whenever the corners of my mouth lift too high,
for my own liking.
I then pull them out and push them in again
The pain of it lingers, though I stopped crying out a long time ago.
The pain of cracking my own chest open,
and hoping beyond hope that I like what I see.
And the hope that you, darling, like it too.
He put her in a bottle,
of sea glass and coral.
She was dressed in laurels,
up to their necks in rose colored lust.
Their eyes are lowered to the ground.
I cannot stop this bleeding
With the cries of men beating at my back.
And this heroic candlelight,
offering much more than virtue.
To the common moth,
a broader view.
In this twilight
There’s this song,
stuck in your head
Autumn leaves caught in my hair,
beauty or something else
Don’t move, darling,
there’s a caterpillar on your shoulder.
Does my neck smell like summer?
Like roses or hydrangeas,
peppering my skin.
Far cry from lovely