Oct 2013
She has a tattoo on her left forearm. She gave it to herself when she was fifteen, with a pen and a needle in the back of her room…
And I’d always thought that was pretty cool. It was just a little line, like a “z” or the trail of a honey bee, something from deep within a mind flowing with twisted fantasy, but I could never see that it was a “two”. Because we, the children of Ignorance and Bliss, are number two. And you, my dear friend, are number one, in both our minds and yours. So we lock ourselves behind closed doors and waste away doing chores that were yours, and lore of cut wrists or an air-tight noose for the gender I kiss is so cliché that you, in all your self-love and knowing when and how to turn push into shove, somehow missed that my wrists are scar free, and I love my sexuality, and my sole insecurity is that I am number two. To both me and you. And it doesn’t matter if you lead with your left or your right, if you flee or you fight, if you’re gay, straight, or bi, you’re a butterfly in my eyes, the thousand-mirrored eyes of a simple housefly that can’t even see the sky in which you preside through this opaquely glass ceiling…
And that window of opportunity looks rather appealing, but I have this feeling it’s only reserved for those with pretty, powerful, or popular wings… and I am none of those things.
And for once, I see that my story may never be quite as uplifting as I’d like to make it seem, because I’m quite keen to the fact that Act III will always end in tragedy. And those aren’t things I like to say, but to this day I pray that this grotesque display of shimmering wings and beautiful things would simply go away so I could say that a tattoo of the number two is something I will never do, but until that happens the concept rings true. Yet I’m told my wrists aren’t fit for a single number or slit.
I have a long fuse, but it’s already been lit, so the next time you see fit to shoot ***** of spit or permit your self-love to turn push into shove, it may be my blood and ink that pools in the sink, mixing with my salty tears I’ve held through literally years of no self-love and knowing that the dove is you.
And I am number two.
And I’d always thought that was pretty cool. It was just a little line, like a “z” or the trail of a honey bee, something from deep within a mind flowing with twisted fantasy, but I could never see that it was a “two”. Because we, the children of Ignorance and Bliss, are number two. And you, my dear friend, are number one, in both our minds and yours. So we lock ourselves behind closed doors and waste away doing chores that were yours, and lore of cut wrists or an air-tight noose for the gender I kiss is so cliché that you, in all your self-love and knowing when and how to turn push into shove, somehow missed that my wrists are scar free, and I love my sexuality, and my sole insecurity is that I am number two. To both me and you. And it doesn’t matter if you lead with your left or your right, if you flee or you fight, if you’re gay, straight, or bi, you’re a butterfly in my eyes, the thousand-mirrored eyes of a simple housefly that can’t even see the sky in which you preside through this opaquely glass ceiling…
And that window of opportunity looks rather appealing, but I have this feeling it’s only reserved for those with pretty, powerful, or popular wings… and I am none of those things.
And for once, I see that my story may never be quite as uplifting as I’d like to make it seem, because I’m quite keen to the fact that Act III will always end in tragedy. And those aren’t things I like to say, but to this day I pray that this grotesque display of shimmering wings and beautiful things would simply go away so I could say that a tattoo of the number two is something I will never do, but until that happens the concept rings true. Yet I’m told my wrists aren’t fit for a single number or slit.
I have a long fuse, but it’s already been lit, so the next time you see fit to shoot ***** of spit or permit your self-love to turn push into shove, it may be my blood and ink that pools in the sink, mixing with my salty tears I’ve held through literally years of no self-love and knowing that the dove is you.
And I am number two.
