Throughout the night I try to forget I was ever kissed, delicately against the nape of neck like I was something delicate to be kissed. Or that beneath flecks of dead flesh something foreign and soft bloomed—that inclined the orchids on my bedside to cling and bow, like I was something to bask in.
I close my eyes and drift away from the way my name was whispered in my ear, over and over again, like a promise assured and a desire confided. I ignore the smiles exchanged, throw away maps traced, recant afternoons fermented by the buoyancy of your laugh because you asked questions. About the scars that peeked out from the breaths of fabric I did not always cover because you made me forget.
I rather call down the Sun, shut the blinds, and eliminate exposure so I can cradle myself in expensive linen...I rather push you aside, tell you to stay and paralyze you with my isolation...I rather bury it in the back of my mind—that you ever knew my story or that there was ever one to tell. I rather watch the orchids wither and brown, suffocate beneath the weight of a shadow I cast on all things, than hear you when you tell me every scar is known, every mar beautiful. Because I cannot stand the terrible lightness of Love.
No comments:
Post a Comment