I like the way her hair smells, and I think I am crazy for that, simply that, that’s all I need, to make circles in my head where squares can only be and to calculate footsteps as stones that clank on a metal path and remind me of all the times I caused noise where they heard silence. And I am jaded, and I am the color dark green that swims in circles around her fucking eyes that I want to let myself drown in because it doesn’t feel normal if I don’t, but then I have to remind myself that normalcy was created in my own head, shifting in waves of up and down emotions she says she feels for me. And I don’t understand how I became so insane over love, so I stay in logic and keep any remnant of feeling far away from me so when I sense a faint touch of skin on my fingertips, my nails start to peel back and recoil at the thought of her empty voice. And I repeat the word “no” into the void of my mind as she discreetly pulls me into a dark room where I can’t feel the pain of the marks she leaves with her lips because I’m too consumed with the way her hands drench upon my chest, the way she creates the most elegant swirls with her waist, the way she carves out intricate lines down my back.
That’s the problem. When I get like this. I can’t feel the pain. Not when she gets like this.
Or maybe I can, it’s just drenched in honey that I so badly crave to blow bubbles into as I tie weights to my feet in order to sink faster, her fucking perfect hands holding me down because I so eagerly asked her too. And she’s doing nothing wrong, I am the one building forts on a bending river and praying to a false god that water will retreat for soil to finally form. And so I find myself repeating a foreign chant about all the times that crumbling wax has stuck me in familiar places with faces turned away. Watching my bare shoulders sink into a golden shade, wondering when I stopped recognizing the color of a person I once was. Wondering when my whole body felt like after shavings of her red lips. Wondering when the tint of rose on her warm cheeks became a source of life for my written words. Wondering as the sweet taste of gold that shimmers like her fucking perfect hair…turns bitter. I turn bitter. And that’s my problem. When I get like this.
No one knows
I get like this.