It was not supposed to be that way. No green-purple spots in my eyelids, I said, said no graveyard asphalt on the back of my knees. It was supposed to approach me modestly, quietly, with blushing fingertips and eons of time. I had imagined it would approach me modestly.
In the meantime, I could visit a brothel or two ***** my heart out, spread open its capillaries. Poetry is prostitution of the lewdest kind and how lovely, while I **** my paragraphs to eat a man or two? There was one with hardened fingertips and no more than a second to spare.
I had imagined it would approach me plainly. No sifting through mounds of shell and bone, I said, said no puppet shows. No masquerades, and my veins were supposed to do their job.
This was supposed to be my play, my knight takes rook, my girl takes respite. I was supposed to come out golden.
He was not cruel but it seeped out of him like mustard gas. Sickly, yellow, I inhaled it with relish acid burned its way down my cheeks through my chest. And how beautiful, to love and be loved without feeling it crush your lungs.