Be honest with me. You knew that I'd sent the swallow,
and so you broke its legs because taking is all you've
ever known how to do.
I never could satiate your appetite for sacrifice.
You'd fancied yourself a god, after all.
Let me return the favor. I know you're not at fault here.
I just thought I could make you love me, and it hurt
to admit that I was wrong. The truth is, I was
just a little too lonely and you a little too restless.
Your touch was rare
and I waited for it patiently, desperately, ceaselessly. But it was also
sweet and
scorching, flames licking at my skin just the way you knew I liked—
with teeth skimming gently down the right side of my neck.
You cherished me in a way I didn't know I deserved.
I liked the occasional taste of worship, myself.
(You rubbed off on me easily.)
I immortalized you into poetry
each time you offered me
even a single concession, but the memories smear together
like wet paint against a forceful hand because
I needed to remember
you as something kind, something beautiful.
It's a little funny; my limbs were always coated in pity
after your kisses and yet it was me
who covered your eyes
so you didn't have to
watch as I shattered before you. My loyalty deathless like a
dog's, my hunger growing into a parasite in the hollow
peach-pit of my belly.
Here, I am
sitting on the steely mosaic tiles of my bathroom
floor, still licking my wounds
and crouching with my faceless demon
to offer you this one last truth:
Holding you turned me
into a monster.
Love was never going to be enough.
So send the swallow back, baby.
Attach to its mangled legs the closure
you owe me.
YOU ARE READING
hanahaki healing
Poetrytell me about that time you sat in the hollow room of the moon and thought about how it wasn't so bad to be haunted, after all 2022 © moonlid
