[I will not follow you down the rabbit hole. Not even for love.]
I wish I could grind you down to a pulp
And remake you in the image of a better man.
That's harsh, isn't it? To be juiced in a kitchen
By mechanical hands, to leak blood instead of
Citrus into a waiting bowl. To be served out
To strangers with gaping mouths painted
The reds and yellows of fledgling birds
Sitting on their own fat, waiting to be fed.
How does that feel when you mull it over?
Are you the apple or are you the press, love?
Because I've been both and god does it make
Me angry to be the shiny apple at your side,
Because god do I want to be that shiny thing,
That trinket that impresses and competes and
Blends and enhances like the fine jewelry
We can't afford. I've been taught to be an
Accessory somehow. I've been taught
To compare myself to ghosts and ask
If my lips are softer than theirs
I did it all for you, love, I stomached disease.
I breathed in miasmic air and coughed,
And coughed, and though I escaped the plague
Of your house the plague of your house still
Fell upon me, fell upon me hard, though
I never once felt a fever but the one inside my head
And when I couldn't breathe it was because
Of memories clogged in my throat instead of
Phlegm.
I would sell my soul to not be so afraid.
It is a prison I was born into and I grew into
And I left at maturity, weeping, carrying the
Chains out into the street. Blocking traffic.
Conspicuous orange clothing, tacky, coarse.
But no one honked and no one looked and
No one saw. So I forgot and I lived my life
Under the shadow cast by barbed wire on
Concrete on a sunny day. I forgot.
And then I remembered.
And then I forgot.
Because it always comes back.
It's in my cells, love, the rabbit's urge to run
And burrow. I pound the ground to dust
When I see the warning signs when I see him
Wearing your skin. Smiling your smile.
