This poem is not mine, although it was written by me. The words are my own, the paper and the ink with which I wrote them too, but the story belongs to someone else. It is dedicated to her, because I understand.
These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder
Which, as they kiss, consume
Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene VI
"But fire thought, she'd really rather be water instead" - Cooling, Tori Amos
It enchants me utterly. Terrifies me, like waiting for an end you cannot see.
For an out. (That’s it).
You hide from it still. But I know I can’t stop it from forming slowly,
Blossoming in my precious head.
That sweetness has a bitter edge
I find, sometimes.
And yet the dream where it began, that moment of pure idea
When it was total, when it connected to everything -
That will not die for you. I envy you that.
The ivy climbs, covers, chokes, and those blood roses keep on growing
Decorating the crumble and decay, the aging
Of that perfection.
I need a firestorm, blazing. Those licking flames…
Those violent hands on feeble skin.
I keep forgetting how to swim
How I swam,
Where it all began, before everything.
Falling. Forwards. Not sinking, nor drowning.
That haunting, crippling obsession shakes me deeply
Tempts me maddeningly,
And as my horror grows, again I feel that wordless mouth
Consume the emptiness that’s left behind.
Burn away the dust.
The brick and mortar.
I know how it will end. I’ve always known it.
With more walls.
And the fire in me
Though all at once alive and vital
Is doomed to end
In tears. With water, like she said,
In that strange darkness and solemnity I‘ve imagined.
Cavernous. Put out. Lost and stranded
Without a candle, or a chance to swim.
That stranger still drinks my blood
Bruises my petal cheek
With glass eyes I stare beyond myself
At his kiss. At my weakness. My humanity.
To the music of my soul
The thrum of pain
I sing myself towards an endless sleep.
My light is moonlight.
Inconstant and changeable.
They are shadowy lullabies to me, and make for small comfort.
I hope you know that.
And so tonight, and to all those nights (in between)
I am a pyre.
That searing strangeness will suffice
To live. To breathe. To deceive.
And so; to love and death.
I burn. I freeze.
Created: Feb 02, 2010sara_nia Document Media