TW - domestic abuse  


If I had discovered you, Silhouette, told the world to you, cast a spell
to flatten the curve of you - could you have stayed?

If I had stopped hateful hands moving from heavy ******* over new
roundness to naive-wet - could I have run with you?

If I had pushed through their countdown, their grip and anesthesia -
clammed up, stood up - would they have let us get away?


I should have kept you - Silhouette - cocooned and safe.


He discovered you in a slow transformation I hadn’t felt - turned me
around to face him, like a naughty child.

I wondered the game we played. He slid hands up my vest, cupped my *******, drew fingers down the symmetry of my belly.

He laughed because I was wet, but I opened to him, I always did. I learned
about you, Silhouette, when he whispered you can’t keep it.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

My death will be liberating.

And I do not say that in the sense
that I am going to find a cliff
and take a good jump off.

No.

I am just trying to find a
clever way to tell you

that I do not know what is going
to happen next.

You see,

there is a
fine line
between
dreaming and
mortality

and

I am finding out for myself
that being in love
does not always
involve

being awake.

And for my sake
I fall in love with daydreams,
nightmares,
hazy realities
and

the hung-over idea

of not being enough.

It is all out of my hands.
                 It is all out of time.

And the only thing I have left to do,
now,


is decide.

She would vanish if she could
Disappeared and gone for good
But then again she never understood
How much she needed to be

The world a land of passing glances
Fading dreams and phony chances
Made it so I’d find she dances
Betwixt reality and a dream

And there she’d sit in silent splendor
The realest of dreams wanting to surrender
Because of a reality that had rendered
Her unable to fly

And so in silent rage, sadness, fear
The dream wished she could disappear
And soon she’ll be away from here
Without so much as a goodbye