Through doorways and windows into bubbles of being that pop at the merest of touches, I try to be gentle but everything always falls apart in my hands. Through the streets and alleys and cities and seas, I picture you in a black dress along with pouting, blood red lips. You could be evil. Could be a menace sent from the devil himself to break me down until there’s nothing left of me but ashes. I do hope so. If you were to stir my obsessions and cause my dark half to crawl out of the woodwork than who knows the pleasures that would await my trembling hands. At the traffic lights, I light up a smoke and scowl at those who pass me by. They know so little of the other side. They chase and fuck and drink and fight yet they’re doing it all wrong. They think the energy they create means something, but it’s just so cheap and devoid of poetry. Even the blood they shed with their battered fists doesn’t do anything other than bore. When you slither and hiss and kiss me on the neck, I check my reflection in the glass of a passing car. You’re not there- but yet you are. You’re in the music that drifts to me from the river. You’re in the scent of cotton candy when I pass through the subway that takes me to the water tower- the one I wished as a kid would blow up so it would flood the entire town and wash away all those without magic. If I step through the mirror and bring you out, do you promise to let me keep being mad? Do you give me your word to never become like those that wish so very much to make us just like them?
Author S. K. Nicholas 
Leave a reply to AJournalForDamnedLovers Cancel reply