The room we shared our
first laughs in, our first hugs,
our first touches, our first kisses.

   Wasn't it precious?
grounded in reality but
fulfilled through fantasy.

   the shallow breaths we both shared,
the way our bodies pressed together,
discovering one another
and learning the bounds of
our movements,
the curves of our hips and
tides of our love,
the way our bodies responded
to our words, our lips, our tongues.

  the bedroom is where we gave
ourselves to one another, the
place where we could share
that of our deepest secrets and desires,
the place where I felt safe with you.

don't you remember that?
you must, if not, maybe it
was im fact memories grounded
in fantasy instead of
memories grounded in reality.

Lavender petals dust the
floor of the shop,
pearls of stems and beads
of thorns stick up from
the carrier bins on display.

Fingertips grace the
blooms of the pink and twilight
nuzzled petals,
so pretty, so fresh,
so ethereal.

A flower shop,
a vortex of learning and beauty,
one for joyous occasions
or forlorn ones, but
for occasions nonetheless.

And my occasion
for such a place with
such ethereal beauty
and flowers with
limbs of outstretched
support and beauty came from
loving and caring for you.

A crack in my skin,
you glued it back together.

  a blemish with my mind,
you fixed it by force.

   a doll

that's what you wanted from me

compliant. complacent.

   easily doted in affections
and sacred anecdotes.

   you were devout to me,
but weren't you that way with all your dolls,
with all of your collections?

   I was promised to be your favorite,
but a favorite isn't pushed to the back,
kept in an attic with no golden rays
willing to shine on the broken skin.

   your favorite wasn't ignored.

   I wasn't your favorite, but perhaps that was for the best.

    you're a dollmaker,
a cruel one with
tenebrous standards, ehtics.

and help those who are your
f a v o r i t e creations;

as every day passes by,
I thank myself for
denying your quips any longer,
your routines,
the melodies of your lackluster
yet pretty promises.

   I was a doll, yours to be exact,
but pretty promises with no
density, and formidable
abandonment and ignorance
shall only go so far.

Such pretty words from such a collected
and soothing voice, a voice given
coherence by a pretty mouth.

Was that why I could believe your lies?
Why they were so beautifully constructed?

   So beautiful that even the most candor
of men couldn't tell the truth
from the fiction in your words.

and only I could see it once
your words became repetitive,
and the beauty of your lies
were too much to not go unnoticed.

only then could I label you as a beautiful liar.

; –
    Keep me up at night with your
  praises and your melodies of sweet
  tidings, but let me sleep
   to the sound of your screams and
    angry sentiments.

Give me that of my own choice.
  give me the availability to choose that of
   which slumber I'd prefer from you.

The moon child played
with the dark clouds,
the gloom and the light
of her mother.

She danced around the
pillars of fire and marble,
the heat wrapping its
arms warmly around
the moon child,

She feared nothing.
She wanted everything
by the noble method of
trial and error.

She was as resilient
as the night’s unsettling breath
and the moon’s lit wick.

Sweeter than honey,
you were always
on the tip of my tongue.
You were coated
with tiers of sugar.

You reminded me of honey,
sweet and palpable, yet
driven and resourceful,
never decaying or changing.