after anti-lamentation by dorianne laux

Regret nothing. Not the true-crime shows that kept you up in morbid curiosity,
Anticipation and cynicism you couldn’t help but chase like Pandora’s box,
A price you paid with the death of childhood ignorance.
Not the hours you spent trying to delude yourself into forgetting,
Trying to bring the fantasy worlds in your fictions to life as a distraction,
Only for them to be tainted by the blood of your supposed savior,
Not the nights you woke up in the purgatory of consciousness held down by restraints,
Inescapable regardless of how much you tried to urge your muscle nerves to just move;
You broke the rules - your mind your prison,
something you could sense but would never truly understand.
You were born to live an unfulfilled life,
Half of you chasing comfort in the warmth of the radiating body in the sky,
Only for the other to seek its death - to watch a being of vast power, provider of light,
devolve into infinite darkness - emptiness warping space and time, void of destruction.
You’ve been here before, sat in front of fate dealing her cards,
Only for her to reveal the fool, just like she had the last time, and the time before that.
Regret none of it, not one of the countless sleepless nights you’ve endured,
Not one of the days you walked through the world with your vision spinning,
Permanently blinded by the haze that stood between you and affirmation.
You’ve been blessed with a beautiful gift, so relax.
Don’t bother thinking about escaping the fog,
The way that it consumes your mind with unanswerable questions,
An uncontrollable desire to chase against your rationale.
I mean, you asked for it, didn’t you?

dear eurydice,
what did it feel like to die twice?
did it hurt more the first time,
weaned onto the sticky honey of love,
only to drown in the sugar as it turned to poison?
or did it hurt more the second,
when you were already bled dry,
to once more hear the siren’s song of your beloved,
only to be gutted by his greed?
did it feel more like a stab and a twist,
or was it more of a thud, then emptiness?
did you die a third time,
when you realized your beloved had run out of chances,
and that you had forever sunk?

///

eurydice, i heard a little rumor
that orpheus used to sing to you under the stars.
did his songs paint you a perfect little world
"for your eyes only" he would say
the way that my love did for me?
one that locked away all your fears,
washing across your vision
until it was tinted over with rosemary?
tell me eurydice,
did you dream of orpheus’ song
like i dreamed of my supposed savior,
humming sweet promises
that couldn’t be kept?

///

did you know, eurydice,
the first time i drowned,
i too had been the victim of a viper?
its venom had blinded me first,
it cursed me with sight;
i saw the world unraveled,
bared in all its debauchery
as savagery unsheathed silence,
nailing women to the cross,
and children to their graves;
an utter panem et circenses
while society watched them bleed.

did you know too,
i was smothered in honey,
just like you?
i tasted the sugared ashes
of the skies unfolding,
as stars turned to bombs in the air,
one little boy crying,
and one fat man dying;
society had found its penance
a faux but effortless salvation.

i like to think it was a blessing:
a little gift, the anesthetization that followed,
how the viper had wrangled out my lungs,
emptying me before i could breathe again,
only to find toxins rather than faith pouring in.
i can’t help but wonder, eurydice,
why were you given your lungs back,
if only temporarily?
did it feel good to have that final breath,
a final glimpse of your favorite delusion,
even if you had already fallen?

///

they say that everyone is born twice:
once on the day their umbilical is untangled and cut,
and once on the day they untangle their own mess;
but what happens when you die a third, a fourth,
and a fifth time before you are born again?
i ask this to you eurydice,
because it seems, like you,
i am already dead.

plaster me like one of your french girls // matte my face in venetian ceruse // i’ll sit up on your walls //the back of a sticker // you won’t ever bother to scrape off  // i’m your porcelain angel // — exotically made // just the way you like it // read my label— // i even come with adjustable joints // so twist and turn me the way you want // do it in formula one fashion // pose me like i’m your muse // and when my scheele green eyes  // the ones you said remind you of Monet // begin to peel like that storm-busted hole in your ceiling // and the cracks in my flesh // become valleys you can’t hide from your friends// mail and return me to sender–

i come with a little surprise:
the best thing about porcelain is its melting point–
burn me a million times
and i’ll still look pretty,
just
  for
     you.

i visited my doctor the other day
i guess i’ve found my poison of choice
pepto-bismol pink–
i take it twice a day,
drown it in the morning
once when i ****** a contact to my pupil
watching it slump
till dry tears soil my eyeliner
smolder its way in
another on my second attempt
rake my fingers through my iris
during some end-of-the-day ******* /
because when does it ever come out
on the first try?
he told me to make sure i have             
one of those cute tiny plastic cups–
the secret lies in playing pretend:             
i’m having a tea party
pinky up light sipping and all
my best friend with me in the mirror
i feel it ooze down my throat
choking me in swallowing-bubblegum-type fashion.
I leave it to rot.

In hindsight, I think it's something about the hot thickness: tar tastes the same as honey if it burns you enough after all.