He says I am dangerous, like I am not a woman but a flame, black eyeliner and a course vocabulary. He says that he keeps his vices at arm’s length, and that is all I will ever be. You see I am not his princess, I am not life giving or presently persuasive. I am simply charcoal used to cure poisoning. I am nothing to him but a warm blanket to store until the winter months settle in. He would have me fester and burn on the floor of his dorm as the wind whispers our love into his ears.
I would be his wool blanket, hand knitted and stored in safety until his warm hands clutch mine in the moonlight. I would be his cigar in the pale dawn of Sunday, I would be his eye contact.
Don’t look away, stay focused on me. Here on the brink of destruction we stand, and I would band to you like hot wax melting against my back, attack the vermin which subsides in the history of our people. We still hold dear to the ideals of that period. However, we haven’t grown out of our britches yet.