When I drink I go from teary-eyed and sentimental to disillusioned and hyper-critical in a matter of sips.
I spent an entire lifetime believing you could save me from darkness, not realizing you were the very sun casting the shadows.
It’s so desperate, the way you gaze at me,
and I can already feel the way your
tongue wishes to pool in my clavicle;
the nervous twitch of hands
waiting to tweak hard nipples.
Your moan has already broken the
sound barrier between the past
and the future where you
are breaking in front of me.
But here is the present,
the moment where your eyes
are begging for forgiveness
as you take the last pieces of a
soul you see bared before you.
there is this quiet violence though,
this ache for the absolute,
and i can feel your fingers itching to make me
bleed, to make my cry out,
you just pull your whisper against my
clit until I’m a mess of tears, gasping for
relief. (you fuck me until I’m raw, until I’m nothing,
until I am drowning in the pool of your eyes and
I couldn’t find reprieve if I tried).
Your hands are against my throat,
your eyes are piercing my heart,
your heat is heavy against my thigh,
your ring is tangled in my hair–
I never did wake up.
I’ll never forget the way
you looked right after sex,
blissed out with heavy lids
and a lazy, happy smile;
the things that meant:
let’s not fight, not right now.
and you would bury your lips
in the curve of my neck,
and fix your hands in the
space of my waist,
and for just a moment we were
stars without a purpose,
burning into each other.
Later, words full of hate
and laced with cheap vodka
would break the air between us,
and my own tongue would just
keep slicing the tension with
biting accusations, and neither of
us would ever say the things we meant.
There are moments, just before the sun
spreads over the horizon, when I
remember the sweet embrace of your
grin, the gentle comfort of your laugh.
There are moments, when the sky is
darker than the breath that passes from
my lungs, when I remember the silent
seething that led up to an alcohol-fueled
year and half long breakup; there were just
too many things to lock up all at once,
and I feel like you never shared the keys.
there are moments, in the quiet,
cigar pressed idlely in hand, eyes fixed on
an unknown future, when I dial your number;
a thousands questions fixed on the tip of my teeth,
poised in the back of my throat. (those moments
end with a well-timed email and memories
that just keep leaving bruises).
there’s this constant, this rhythm in my chest,
this undeniable beat of your name against bone,
carved into muscle and flesh.
It’s not a heart, but it feels like love all the same.
Act 1; Scene 1:
-Everything is awash in hazel and warmth. He keeps staring at you. Your heart shatters, tumbles, crashes into his open palm. He’s smiling, brighter than the sun. He grasps your hand–you fall.
Act 1; Scene 2:
-Your emotions are storming outside, lightning cracking the sky into pieces. Your breath keeps catching in your throat–he’s so close, more electric than the fire raining from the clouds. And his eyes, oh God, his eyes.
And then, his lips are pressed sinfully against yours. For a moment you understand; if this isn’t the Kingdom, you don’t know what is.
-When you wake, forever is a bitter taste, turned to ash in your mouth. His words, scrawled so perfectly, do little to dull the snap against your ribcage; that first real sting of heartbreak.
You survive in his absence, but you’d never mistake it for living.
(Act 1; Scene 3 [aka. the scene we don’t talk about]:
-The morning, when he officially asks you—you think your heart might break from the way it’s growing. That month, where his promise weighs against your soul, it’s the easiest month of your life. All it takes is one boy with right shade of blueblue eyes to destroy every forward step you’d taken).
Act 2; Scene 1:
-You’ve never felt hatred quite like this moment. Something akin to fire is blazing beneath your skin and when you look at him, everything flares.
The first time he kisses you, it’s pity. The second, a drunk mistake. You vow the third will be different.
You fall in love with him two months before it happens.
Act 2; Scene 2:
-He’s staring at you. After a week of silence, he’s just staring at you. You feel like you’re choking, you feel like you’re dying. You press a hand to the life beginning to pulsate beneath your skin, and you almost hate him for being the better man.
Act 2; Scene 3:
-It’s a slow strangle for the next 3 years; fighting, fucking, falling apart. You end almost exactly where you began, full of too much hate and too much love to look him the face when you break his heart.
You fall in love with him because you’re broken; you let him reciprocate because he’s married and safe. You sabotage it because it’s always easier to control the outcome. (but, goddamn, if some part of you didn’t think, for one second, he would choose you).
Act 3; Scene 1:
-You multiply in your own loneliness; nothing times nothing, numbness becoming more numbness.
You wake one morning covered in scars, inked and purposefully inflicted. And when you look in the mirror, all you see is what was taken from you.
All you see is your third act, your last chance.
You wake up one morning, you look in the mirror–you’re already dead.