"stung" poems
.
*Honeybees, birds and blooms unfurl
an enchanting spell
when spring comes by here
Memories waft 'neath burled rustic trellis
where flowered tendrils grasp fleshly
like the newness a love once tenderly embraced
Songbirds in your garden sing
of swooning memories rapture.., of velvet eyes,
the fragrant spicy nectar hidden within her walls
A song of honeyed bees' sweetest stinger,
and the poignant ***** of intoxicating surrender
lingers, bemused spellbound by a thorny heirloom rose
Sharp beauty beloved like a blameless trap
caught blissfully, breathlessly inbetween
all you wish for and all your wanton needs
Desire 's wellspring an unspoken passion
coquet swollen buds adorn blossoming,
sensual, untamed carnal grace
A picture perfect natural beauty;
sunlit chassé … feathered brush, demure blush
dancing with basket of lace petal’d perfume
For to colour a heart's blank pages
rapt in the poesy a joyous ecstasy ..,
enrapture with rainbow's luscious taste
What seems lost is but a tender vestige unfound
a passing moments innocence lost
to steal away like rumors of gold
These silent reveries seep from a hole in my heart,
as if ripe strawberries of yore, gently weeping sweetness
when pricked by a thorny rose
The ides of spring do still bleed a timeless ache
onto the page ... sweet naivety stung
by a mesmerizing dart to the heart
Songbirds in your garden do sing
of sweetest things immersed in nature's nectar
blissful memories sleeping in the petals of a rose*
Sung to the wind by a song sparrow — ♪ ♫...✩ ☼✩ ✩☺✩
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC
If there was one word
One word, isolated by itself
That I cannot stand above all others
It would have to be "Okay"
I despise "Okay"
"Okay"
Is how your millionth day at work went
"Okay"
Is off-brand raisin bran
"Okay"
Is how you say life is going
When you don't want to admit you spend
Every second of it
Wanting to die
"Okay"
Is packed to the brim with
Hidden implications
Like a treasure chest
Filled with bottles
With little subliminal hatreds
Written on tiny slips of paper
Passively aggressively pushed inside
To discover later
As I pull out a treasure map
And try to decipher
Where I went wrong
"Okay"
Is a one word dismissal
That feels like an essay a thousand pages long
"Okay"
Is a poison dripping with disinterest
When I dared to share with you
Something I thought might make you smile
"Okay"
Is like trying to talk to a wall
While watching the paint on it dry
"Okay"
Takes two seconds to write
Yet I waited days
For that dreaded word
To grace my notifications
"Okay"
Should be used sparingly
As if each time you send it
You **** the receiver just a little bit
"Okay"
Should not be said so often that
I know what you're about to say
Like I saw it in a crystal ball
"Okay"
Is not looking up from your phone
When I tell you about my day
"Okay"
Is not the proper response
To "I love you"
They say that the opposite of love isn't hatred
It's indifference
And I can't think of a response
More indifferent to pouring out
My heart into your hands
Than "Okay"
At least the last thing you said to me
Before we parted ways
Showed that you cared
At least a little bit
"I hate you"
Stung less
Than the thousands of times
Over our countless conversations
You responded
"Okay"
Okay?
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
so it is, so it be.
life granted me a boon, come to me, the honey.
not the merest of coating, but a power enrichened,
capable of driving out the slow acting, daily killing,
poisonous venom.
makeover, coverup of tears of ancient marriage-madness,
black swan hate disguise, her lies, venom injection of
coffee blood staining love pretense, now just scar tracks for a
new boulevard.
the slow pour, the golden russian amber intertwined tones,
tongue tasted, inside me now, revealed in slow exiting, beauteous,
mellifluous tears.
you dance with the stars, I watch you watching,
clueless that my thee-flavored tears, dance and pour down
my face.
destitute, nearer my God than thee, god blessed this child's life,
love gifted from sweet bees, late in life, flew from my computer screen and sonnet-stung me with antidotes of
love n' honey...
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
Ten little soldier boys went out to dine;
One choked his little self and then there were nine.
Nine little soldier boys sat up very late;
One overslept himself and then there were eight.
Eight little soldier boys traveling in Devon;
One said he’d stay there and then there were seven.
Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks;
One chopped himself in halves and then there were six.
Six little soldier boys playing with a hive;
A bumble bee stung one and then there were five.
Five little soldier boys going in for law;
One got in chancery and then there were four.
Four little soldier boys going out to sea;
A red herring swallowed one and then there were three.
Three little soldier boys walking in the zoo;
A big bear hugged one and then there were two.
Two little soldier boys sitting in the sun;
One got frizzled up and then there was one.
One little soldier boy left all alone;
He went and hanged himself and then there was none.
Feb 4, 2021
Feb 4, 2021 at 1:45 PM UTC
*Honey bee collects nectar
Honeycombs with honey
Intruders get stung
Honey still tastes sweet*
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
All strung
out
on
sadness,
empty shells
of needles
that injected
the next defense
to keep me going
splayed upon
the coldness
of metal
somewhere in a place
lower than
the floorboards
of the nether regions
of a private hell,
where no one sees
the truth behind
the doors of
beaten swords
of silken pictures
in frothy shades
of effervescent green
a smiling happy family
in which the
sounds of drowning
can only be
vaguely heard
a faded gurgle
in an ocean of sighs
Somewhere, there,
the pain in my veins
spreads like
a self-administered
drug
only it's not
my prescription, at all
just a parody
from the very
sick doctor
who shares
this house,
meant to
be a home
one who thinks
he knows it all
but knows nothing
In this dreamlike weaving
of staring blankly
into alternative spaces
when all is so heavy
that even breathing is a task
I suddenly remember
who the **** I am
and push my gaze through
the ceiling cracks
to look up at
the stars,
receiving their
shadows
of light
like a blessing
upon my
nettle-stung
tongue
and
rise
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
Sitting on my bed
Gazing out at the view
Laptop in lap
I wonder
Being of mixed race
The truth of my origins
The blood coursing through my veins
Goffle they would say
But iv always believed a man's skin colour doesn't define who he is
Kwabulawayo
A place where he is being killed
Home of the Ndebele
My hometown
Built on the ruins of a Royal town
uMzilikazi ,Leander Starr Jameson ,Lobengula ,Cecil john rhodes
Men of courage
Black and white
Fought struggles
Years before my birth
Mater Dei Hospital
My journeys beginning
My grandfathers end.
Joy and pain
My hearts memories
From Primary
Whitestone
Green fields
Where i spent my childhood
Life's little joys
Clay-yaki
In the rain
Barefoot.
Speargrass
How it stung
Running through the grass
Taller than i was
Forts
Built with shoelaces
Marbles
Fights in the sand
Afternoons spent picking mullberyys
The girls dormitory
Offbounds.
Matrons
Got me the cain
Thursday Nights
Prefects Priveleges
Sports
Cross country
The houses of Tuli, Shangani, Shashe
lifelong friends made
A place frozen in memory
Home of the best years of my life
Tears streaming down
Every Sunday evening
The way back
A boarders sentiment
Lasting 5min till reunited with friends
Tuck shared
Eskimo Hut
The Green Mamba Or Pink Panther
The food hall
Quiet
Till dessert came
Mr Haworth
Everyday
"The queen would be disgusted if she saw u eating"
The tide of his time
Wandering around my childhood
I bumped unintentionally into
Maturity
Starless nights
First kisses
A little bit older i was
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 8:34 AM UTC
I once had a Simple Plan
To bribe a lady for a Kiss
With a Nickleback in my hand
And an Eagle tattoo on my wrist.
I brought her to the Linkin Park
And gave her meatloaf and Bread
But it had Red Hot Chilli Peppers
So she ate the Pearl Jam instead.
My tongue was like a Rolling Stone
As I tell her my Nirvana of love
I made promises with my Pink Floyd finger
As she watched a Led Zepellin flew above.
Her Metallica heart didn’t waste time
And she rejected me within Thirty Seconds to Mars
I treated her like a Queen
But all I got were Iron Maiden scars.
It stung me like the Bee Gees
Or a Scorpion tail’s as fine
The Beatles are all crawling down my skin
When she broke this Heart of mine
Guns N Roses were the choices
That were left for me to Root
But a Cheap Trick with the latter
Ended my romantic Journey afoot.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
Six months on, and hundreds of offspring later,
She is much too languid to even move.
The listless queen bee is stung repeatedly;
Her own children have seemingly turned on her.
Once good and dead she is tossed from the nest.
Merciless? Or mercy killing?
I will leave you to decide.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 10:54 PM UTC
As I lay down
To fall into slumber
In a gentle land
Piece of ****
Yellow Jacket
Stung me in my hand
Tonight not insomnia
Nor caffeine
Or even the troubles I keep
Kept me from my sleep
The little *******
Hid under my pillow
Doing his best
Waiting and plotting
To steal my peace
And much needed rest
I usually keep the peace
And let nature be free
But tonight I made an exception
And I killed that ******* bee
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
a honey bee stung me
not because I disturbed the remnants of his hive
or stepped on the flower he sat upon
I watched puzzled as he struggled on the ground
after burying his sword in my arm
thus sacrificing himself
in honor of his brothers and his queen
you see
he was the last
he had no voice to tell me of their fate
the destruction we'd wrought
on this docile creature
this creator of sweet nectar
the sting was brief and I brushed it away
and continued on
as we all do when only temporarily impeded
unaware
the sting about to come
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 3:50 PM UTC
Forth into the forest straightway
All alone walked Hiawatha
Proudly, with his bow and arrows,
And the birds sang round him, o’er him,
“Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!”
Sang the robin, the Opechee,
Sang the blue bird, the Owaissa,
“Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!”
Up the oak tree, close beside him,
Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
In and out among the branches,
Coughed and chattered from the oak tree,
Laughed, and said between his laughing,
“Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!”
And the rabbit from his pathway
Leaped aside, and at a distance
Sat ***** upon his haunches,
Half in fear and half in frolic,
Saying to the little hunter,
“Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!”
But he heeded not, nor heard them,
For his thoughts were with the red deer;
On their tracks his eyes were fastened,
Leading downward to the river,
To the ford across the river,
And as one in slumber walked he,
Hidden in the alder bushes.
There he waited till the deer came,
Till he saw two antlers lifted,
Saw two eyes look from the thicket,
Saw two nostrils point to windward,
And a deer came down the pathway,
Flecked with leafy light and shadow.
And his heart within him fluttered,
Trembled like the leaves above him,
Like the birch-leaf palpitated,
As the deer came down the pathway.
Then, upon one knee uprising,
Hiawatha aimed an arrow;
Scarce a twig moved with his motion,
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled,
But the wary roebuck started,
Stamped with all his hoofs together,
Listened with one foot uplifted,
Leaped as if to meet the arrow;
Ah! the singing, fatal arrow,
Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him!
Dead he lay there in the forest,
By the ford across the river;
Beat his timid heart no longer,
But the heart of Hiawatha
Throbbed and shouted and exulted,
As he bore the red deer homeward,
And Iagoo and Nokomis
Hailed his coming with applauses.
From the red deer’s hide Nokomis
Made a cloak for Hiawatha,
From the red deer’s flesh Nokomis
Made a banquet in his honor.
All the village came and feasted,
All the guests praised Hiawatha,
Called him Strong-heart, Soan-ge-taha!
Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee!
9.2k
I was never looking into you
I was only pouring an image of myself onto your canvas
Of course I didn’t know
it was me looking into me
this was the mirage of my desire
always in the shape of a question mark
and you
a sweeping mystery
oozing something toeing the peculiar line between *** and titanium (cold, edgy, sharp - trembling
between pain and principle
like blazer and tie
or more like halfway-unbuttoned-shirt-and-slacks on-with-no-tie
(it was like you were making an effort!))
It was ***
but it also wasn’t ***
(I am empty
I am full)
I keep building up and up and up
all these images in my Mind
(which never shuts up)
(a never-ending narrative
She spins and spins and succumbs
only in those rare and passing circumstances)
constructing people like buildings
only the scaffolding is imaginary and when
the architecture folds in on itself
soulless
and my beloved figurines come toppling down on me
why do I still get so surprised
so stung
so lonely in that
hollow and distant way
(like your Mind is echoing
in on
Itself)?
My Mind is like quicksand
devouring streams of memory with ease
forever unsatisfied and craving more of the same
sharp edges and all
praying for a satiation in some distant future
She knows will never come
Only here
in this tiny universe
can I spell out anything resembling rationality
from the mess and junk and tangled tendrils of my Mind
Only here
can I extract bits and pieces of thoughts
and try to puzzle them together
until they make sense
until I can separate “Me” from “Reality"
And what doesn’t make sense
what I need to understand
is why I feel so beset
with this heavy magnetism that
overpowers me to the point of
paralysis
(with little to no room for breathing)
and why it was you
who pushed me into this feeling
and you
who is still pulling me along
far past the threshold of my resistance
and I am done
and it stings
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
*When my finger met the paper, in a brief love affair, it took my blood as a trophy.
Then the red droplets created a beautiful mess as they sank into the dead white wood.
It stung badly, and it continued to hurt as I went on a mission to find a bandage that
could keep the crimson art inside of me, instead of spilling it everywhere.
When I wiped the excess blood away I saw nothing, yet I was still in pain.
But what hurts the most right now is my heart, because just like I couldn’t
see the papercut, you can’t see my broken heart either, and it is bleeding heavily.*
Because of you.
*And I can’t seem to find a bandage big enough to heal the
hole you left in my dying heart.*
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
I often find myself standing alone
I scare people off, I'm fearful of the unknown
They call me a scarecrow but what do I care?
Finding a glimpse of honesty seems to be rare
Sticks and stones are made of my broken bones
And all of the words that have stung me
My heart impure, oh so demure
I long for an utter recovery
I fear it's rotted away beyond any possible repair
In the shadows I pray that someone will end my despair
All they see is a scarecrow, they don't see the human inside
The loneliness in my heart has forced me to hide
All my true feelings, they don't know how much I've cried
Hoping someone would save me without pushing me aside
I'm one of a kind, that's the one thing I know
I'm a scarecrow on the outside, but my soul will always glow.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC
We sat across the table
and I couldn't look away
from all his tattoos.
Without thinking,
I stretched out my hand
and extended my finger.
I began to trace
the arcade tickets that ran
the length of his arm.
He grew up with his grandfather
and they spent hours in his arcade.
His grandfather was his first best friend,
so the tickets they won were his first tattoo.
I could feel his smile grow.
He loved his tattoos
and now I did, too.
He left a mark on my life.
Just like the ink
on his skin.
I see him everywhere.
I can't tell if he tattooed himself
in my mind or under my eyes.
There's no escaping
or replacing him.
There's just no one like him.
He had a kind of goodness
that could be seen
in the smile that
would burn into the back of my mind,
haunting me for years.
He was just dorky enough
to get a laugh out of me
when I had the weight of the
world on my chest.
If you're lucky enough
to even know him,
he'll put a tattoo in you, too.
Whether you want it or not,
you will never forget him.
Trust me, I've tried.
He comes out of nowhere
and he helps you.
He asks for help
just as much as you.
It's just enough
to make you think
that he needs you, too.
God knows he was what I needed.
I needed him like
an alcoholic needs his whisky.
He was my whisky.
His finger tips
had a different kind of ink
and he was part of me with every touch.
I swear he had needles
in the tips of his fingers.
His touch always stung,
and now I will never
forget that sting
that is now stuck
in the parts of me he touched.
All the hugs,
the intentional and unintentional ways
that we touched.
They left their mark,
their pain-riddled stain on me.
The stains of him were left
with memories and stories
and they were attached
to songs that I can no longer listen to
and places I can no longer visit.
He came into my life so quick
and he left just as fast.
I think about him often.
I dream about him often.
It's like he stops in now and then
to catch up in chat in my sleep.
He took a part of me
with him when he left.
But his memories remain
and I don't want them.
I think about the goals he had
and I hope he achieves them.
I just wish I could be the one
that gets to congratulate him.
He will be leaving in August
and I will probably never see
or talk to him again.
But I will never be able
to forget him.
He is the one tattoo
I wish I could remove.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
When I am dying, let me know
That I loved the blowing snow
Although it stung like whips;
That I loved all lovely things
And I tried to take their stings
With gay unembittered lips;
That I loved with all my strength,
To my soul’s full depth and length,
Careless if my heart must break,
That I sang as children sing
Fitting tunes to everything,
Loving life for its own sake.
8.1k
*I feel your heart's heavy
and your mind trailing off to places
I'm not allowed to go...*
- Dajena M
My body...
Lays battered under unforgiving weather
I amble forth with unsure
In search of pastures much greener
My face...
Wears my despair
Mirrors wouldn't recognise
Reflecting back a faceless stare
My eyes...
Stung red with tears
Conveying the murmurs from my soul
Clouded by despondence that never clears
My limbs...
Bent awkward with time
Arms hang lifeless; legs sore from bearing
Load of my past of crime
My mind...
Trails in the wake of fallen dreams
Searching for an oasis
Instead finding only brackish streams
My soul...
Holds the weight of an anvil
Still I trudge to the farthest reaches
Through barren lands where all is still
My heart...
Yet beats with rhythm so true
It keeps me alive
It gifts to me...
you...
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
Since the day we met, I am struck and stung
From that day, my inside is singing this song
All I want to do is see you and hold you
I want to tell you, I think I love you
When you come near my sight
My senses pop out and I lose my mind
I want to hold your hand and make you smile
I want to talk with you and walk a million mile
When you look at me and you touch me, I get butterflies
Your words fill the empty space where my heart lies
This heart has been crushed and cut with knife
Your voice, so sweet to me, bring it back to life
I was smashed; my feelings were burned down to ashes
Frustration gulped me and I got serious depression cases
I was lost for very long hours of years
Scared, taunted and hollowed with fears
Now I can see the spark in your eyes
I have fallen for you, and it’s no lies
My blur life has changed to a beautiful bokeh
I want to confess I love you......................
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
I call my father's father Ye-Ye
because he is a traditionalist
and the word grandfather reminds him of England.
My mother calls him a selfish *******
because he never approved of her wallet's emptiness
and walked out of her wedding.
My father calls him an immature *****
because he throws temper tantrums at eighty-seven
and still doesn't respect anyone.
When I was five,
I stayed over alone for the first time.
I accused him of trying to poison me
because I found a dead fly in my soup.
When I was ten,
I found a coupon at the market
And got him a free box of Cheerios.
When I was thirteen,
I was sitting with him outside.
I got stung by a bee
and didn't say a word.
I have not seen my grandfather in seven years.
He has since almost died four times.
My aunt calls him a racist snob
because he refused to put my biracial cousin's picture on the mantle
and boasts of his friend's grandchildren instead.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
*Lydia, Lydia,
There are broken angels
beneath your skin.
Your face is stone,
and white as snow,
where the color should have been.
Your husband is by your side,
middle school passion left undead.
Your sister over your right shoulder,
smiling like the day you wed.
You don't hear Zach's talk of cereals,
but a tight smile shows on your face.
The greif streaked grime of tears and salt
rims your neck like wedding lace.
Tomorrow you will rise
and pour milk into your bowl.
Look across the table,
just to feel your crushing soul.
To not see the eyes
that were there for twenty years.
To share no more secrets,
or confide her sisterly fears.
You both spent your life devoted
to three hundred sixty-five words
of repiticious hope.
Only to wake up with the flipping of a page,
to find a car bent in ash and smoke.
This hollow eyed shell I saw in the store
clenched her teeth up tight,
to suffer along like the people of The Book,
and hold Faith to Father of Light.
You made me shed tears for you,
Madison,
because you made me come to see
I would never leave my little sister
By any of my own means.
I felt cheated for you,
so joyous in your Word.
To spread the light of God
to every part of Earth.
But now you are away,
taking flight,
still this young.
I go home with knotted throat,
and my eyes felling as if theyd been stung.
I've been thinking of you both,
Sisters,
by blood and faith.
I'm so sorry for your loss,
the unknowing,
all the rage.
I weep for you, dear Madison.
You lived only in a blink.
But I weep for you still more, Lydia.
And I pray that you won't sink.*
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot,
…stirred her iron ***
Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot,
…home of death and rot,
Abigail Primpot sewed and stitched a lot.
She produced a sweater that shined like treasure,
…and no one else has ever seen much better!
Abigail Primpot learned to cook from old wives’ tales in an old dusty book.
Frog legs, bird gizzard, wolf’s bane, small lizard, one rotten apple and one sharp tooth, …cup of mead, some spices and a bottle of vermouth, a chant and a song and a wizard’s spell, …and a whirlpool in the cauldron that went to Hell! Abigail Primpot likes to stitch ‘cause she is a witch and though she was quite young; she lived with snakes, bees and scorpions and things that stung!
*Abigail Primpot would become a Beast when she wrapped herself in her shining fleece!*
Abigail Primpot,
...her home stunk of death and rot,
Abigail Primpot,
...sewed and stitched a lot,
Abigail Primpot,
...she had an iron ***
Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
a happy little bumblebee, flew smiling to and fro
the gardener who never quit, he made the flowers grow
his work impressed his happiness, the harder that he tried
he was the best until one day, he stung a squirrel and died
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 1:40 PM UTC
The day you died I went into the dirt,
Into the lightless hibernaculum
Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard
Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard.
It was good for twenty years, that wintering --
As if you never existed, as if I came
God-fathered into the world from my mother's belly:
Her wide bed wore the stain of divinity.
I had nothing to do with guilt or anything
When I wormed back under my mother's heart.
Small as a doll in my dress of innocence
I lay dreaming your epic, image by image.
Nobody died or withered on that stage.
Everything took place in a durable whiteness.
The day I woke, I woke on Churchyard Hill.
I found your name, I found your bones and all
Enlisted in a cramped necropolis
your speckled stone skewed by an iron fence.
In this charity ward, this poorhouse, where the dead
Crowd foot to foot, head to head, no flower
Breaks the soil. This is Azalea path.
A field of burdock opens to the south.
Six feet of yellow gravel cover you.
The artificial red sage does not stir
In the basket of plastic evergreens they put
At the headstone next to yours, nor does it rot,
Although the rains dissolve a ****** dye:
The ersatz petals drip, and they drip red.
Another kind of redness bothers me:
The day your slack sail drank my sister's breath
The flat sea purpled like that evil cloth
My mother unrolled at your last homecoming.
I borrow the silts of an old tragedy.
The truth is, one late October, at my birth-cry
A scorpion stung its head, an ill-starred thing;
My mother dreamed you face down in the sea.
The stony actors poise and pause for breath.
I brought my love to bear, and then you died.
It was the gangrene ate you to the bone
My mother said: you died like any man.
How shall I age into that state of mind?
I am the ghost of an infamous suicide,
My own blue razor rusting at my throat.
O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at
Your gate, father -- your hound-bitch, daughter, friend.
It was my love that did us both to death.
6.6k
i never wanted to kiss her lips,
just hold her hand
maybe kiss her cheeks because she suited a gentler kind of treatment
something softer and more delicate, quiet;
quieter than the constant raging storms inside my stomach,
inside my mind
(never my heart)
those plump lips
she bit them raw when nervous, and they swelled
blossomed ruby as she looked at me
like she knew this wouldn't last
her eyes remained doughy and mellow
when i met her gaze.
my smile stung as it stretched the lines left by winter's bite
and split them open once more.
she brushed the blood beads away with her fingertips
with a touch so reverent that, for a moment, i thought
maybe she felt as though she were touching rosary beads instead,
and i held my breath to stop myself from chasing her
touch, and pressing her down into the mattress
unholy, chasing pleasure.
both agnostic, but she was much more pure than i;
chivalries always in mind, i wanted to preserve that.
there's always been something inside me
that presses down the animalistic urges with
a conscience caught on consideration and something akin to courtly love-
i wanted to woo her before i pursued her
but i never got further than pressing my lips to her forehead,
wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
i laced my fingers with hers but avoided tying any knots.
i am not a man to be bound,
too free-spirit, too restless, too claustrophobic;
a few months in and i was choking on the ghost of a future;
she kissed me first and i suffocated on the phantom of her hopes for us:
a future that didn't yet exist,
and i didn't want it to.
i never kissed her; i never let her kiss me again.
we tangled fingers over the duvet
the television a background noise to our unsteady breaths,
shallower
than my love for her
i enjoyed her quiet affection like one might enjoy curling into a blanket when cold and ill.
i wanted her smiles, i wanted to fill her memories with goodness
so that she never need feel hopeless, like all men are the same
so that she had something to smile about when she looked back on us;
once the bitterness of our breakup had left her mouth-
whenever that eventual end would be-
she could savour the taste of our sweet, slow-burn, love affair
and be reminded that not all love is true love, but nor is all love heart breaking
i broke her heart anyway.
nobody ever taught me how cruel kindness could be.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC