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Victoria Maretti Jul 2014
I don't know how to
get rid of this silent rage
that burns like white flames.
Victoria Maretti Jun 2014
A thousand kisses touch my lips and flit away
Melancholic butterflies seeking nectar from other empty flowers
Delectable ambrosia? Perhaps —
But leaving the tongue fleetingly
Donating only bitter aftertaste.
No recollection comes to mind with ease
— I think I left cold beds with unturned sheets —
Most satisfied to bear the preface “tease.”
Mechanics are too easy to repeat:
I could write a manual; pen all the intricacies of
falsified intimacy.
Flirtation and coy downward gazes
— Pegs in a game I’ve mastered —
Then when confessions come of great desire
I bite my tongue so as not to repeat “I know.”
I use the piles of hearts to step upon my pedestal
Watching with disinterest as the numbers rise.
My captives swear so many hollow oaths
— and all I’ve heard before —
Uninformed adoration turns to white noise.

- June 07 2014.
Victoria Maretti Dec 2013
The blood seeps over my fingertips
And I see my complexion from clear glass in front of me
Beautiful still, but pallid and stunned as crimson drips to my elbows:
Love, Love, verily, I’ve killed Love.
"Not again!" a voice howls
It sounds from outside but tingles my vocal chords
And Reason and Logic and Pragmatism join hands and encircle me
Each sporting brilliant new medals on their *******.
"Begone!" I cry, and they coldly smirk and slowly fade away—
God, what a God— why so wretched and cruel to give me this fate?
But God hath given free will
The true shame is I am the one who penned this destiny—
And I see other hearts scatter the floor
Still beating weakly
their veins drain from some vicious creature’s attack:
Some evidently wicked hands hath ripped these hearts
fresh from hopeful chests;
I see the red dry under my nails.
But, Ah! Love is miraculous!
Is Love to come and work deep magic and revive these hearts?
Are these hearts to be restored — nay — even one?
…Or am I to sit alone, some proud and regal queen,
Upon a rising mass of battlefield’s aftermath?
Victoria Maretti Oct 2013
It disgusts me to think we neglected to give it a name.
It was love, *******.
Victoria Maretti Sep 2013
A wave came last night, arriving with torrential strength, defeating any opposition
Carrying me as I held my breath, while I wondered if my breath would hold
I knew the only way to avoid complete destruction was to trust completely
letting go of the outcome and fully giving in--

and lo, I found the shore.
Victoria Maretti Sep 2013
How peculiar is it
that which tempts me lies in icy blue panther-like orbs
-the clearest deepest purest brightest blue I’ve yet to come across-
and words that dance like 18th-century aristocrats
-balancing baubles and gaud on their faux hair
waltzing and marching in highly practiced steps about an opulently furnished and lit facility with glistening fountains and marble floors echoing flirtations and strings and heels and sneezes into embroidered handkerchiefs-
and how desire has strayed from maintained eye contact and prolonged gentle kisses and subtle smirks of amusement
-bordering on genuine happiness-
and I’m sure
that even if you were to sweep in again
declaring poetry and romance with roses in your hand and one between your teeth
-glittering with all the fantasy an idealistic Me would have swooned for and adored-
or even if you were to creep in again
confessing exploration and emotion with wildflowers pressed in a book filled with soul-searching entries and personal revelations
-glowing subtly with the authenticity all secretly wish to find even a shadow of-
I wouldn’t want any of that now:
I’m drawn to that which dies quickly
but while alive is full of life—
love has been tabled for a much later day.
Victoria Maretti Aug 2013
I see you, love
Dancing on the line of apathy
Self-deprecating voices chatter away in your head
The light of inspiration has dimmed in your eyes
Your heart beats absent-mindedly
Dolefully complacent are your days
In and out- smiles to fool them
Rotating doors of relationships
Faces change- your role play stays the same
If this feels unfinished, it is supposed to.
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