I am back in the shadows, standing still
as usual. On the outskirts of the dancing people and,
in my own skirts that flow, burgundy wine in a crystalline glass
that allures and detracts blame from the eye.
And not many eyes do wander so far as to catch,
in the corner, a glimpse of a girl so lost and tired,
young and awkward. When his eyes meet mine I think,
perhaps this is my story, my day (or night) to carpe diem.
But when he comes near it is nothingness that I feel.
Only illicit breath on my neck and from that,
the guilt ****** as hairs stand on edge.
I do not want this now, shocking, I know. Scandalous, I think.
It would be wrong to stop, where after all, do our tales
come from? Our narratives, sewn and stitched
to rich fabrics of our lives. How can I write about this without
the experience of knowing it for myself?
I will detach myself and let it wash over, as his hands
are on my waist and his cologne in my air,
I think it must be like the sea, a salty traverse
that washes away at shores edge. And I want to be a part of
this oceans world with all I am to want.
Music so ear-splitting I feel the ground pounding beneath me
and the room inky-black murkiness that cannot be navigated,
these factors must be what happened to my judgement
And when he is done I sink into the walls and wish to forget this;
he leans forwards and whispers into my ear.
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 9:46 PM UTC
I am back in the shadows, standing still
as usual. On the outskirts of the dancing people and,
in my own skirts that flow, burgundy wine in a crystalline glass
that allures and detracts blame from the eye.
And not many eyes do wander so far as to catch,
in the corner, a glimpse of a girl so lost and tired,
young and awkward. When his eyes meet mine I think,
perhaps this is my story, my day (or night) to carpe diem.
But when he comes near it is nothingness that I feel.
Only illicit breath on my neck and from that,
the guilt ****** as hairs stand on edge.
I do not want this now, shocking, I know. Scandalous, I think.
It would be wrong to stop, where after all, do our tales
come from? Our narratives, sewn and stitched
to rich fabrics of our lives. How can I write about this without
the experience of knowing it for myself?
I will detach myself and let it wash over, as his hands
are on my waist and his cologne in my air,
I think it must be like the sea, a salty traverse
that washes away at shores edge. And I want to be a part of
this oceans world with all I am to want.
Music so ear-splitting I feel the ground pounding beneath me
and the room inky-black murkiness that cannot be navigated,
these factors must be what happened to my judgement
And when he is done I sink into the walls and wish to forget this;
he leans forwards and whispers into my ear.
alex
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