What does it mean, when I can wait a lifetime, spinning golden threads, pricking my finger at the loom, sipping lukewarm tea? Humming.
I'm shocked, sometimes, when it comes to those who I think, sometimes, maybe, that they have just a little more strength than they exhibit. I'm surprised when I say something like, 'you know, maybe now is just not a good time.' I'm surprised when the reply comes back in agreement. Doesn't it feel like a weight off of your shoulders to agree? I've been dragging you down for so long now. Maybe now you can fly off on your own. Everything that I had done to piece together the broken pieces of what I thought was possible, those broken pieces I had collected along the way, pausing for long moments to place them into boxes and containers stuffed with tissue so that they would be kept safe, I thought that maybe you would see the extent I would go to for you, for us. Yet you just walked away, leaving me with my boxes and pieces and tissue torn to shreds, leaving me laughing because I'm such a stupid girl and I just do not learn.
This has nothing to do with love, the love made out of hearts and cupid. This is the respectful and tolerant and patient and honorable and selfless and humble love. That's how I want to love. That's my standard. That's what I strive to give, what I beg to receive.
When does it stop? These days, today, how I'm ignoring the pink sun and shunning the day break. There is a shimmer in the water, silver fish in simple syrup.
I no longer have hawks. All of my hawks have left me.
That's not exactly the truth. I've likely pushed all of you away. I have, haven't I? And I swallow my tears, and I bite my tongue, because I do this to myself. I push away my sunrise, I push away my white feather-chested hawks, push away the love, these kisses.
Everything I have said I have wanted is wrong. It's like the day I woke up and realized I'm liberal. I could almost see the light bulb. I had that moment once again a few moments ago.
The tension and passion and anger and chest-constricting love that had me hyperventilating just subsided. Left me exhausted.
I thought I knew a beautiful boy. Ah, but he was beautiful. With his clear blue eyes and his dark hair and how his laughter when silent as he bit my lip and made me shiver because he found me, somewhere, wherever I was hiding within my own eyes. He had his perfect body, made of marble, as he would, and his skin tasted like honeysuckle. It's an easy go, when sweetness is provided and bitterness transpires. It was easy for me to walk out of his door. I saw him recently, this beautiful boy, and he said hello. I smiled at him, my kitty cat smile, the bloodthirsty one wrapped in velvet, and I walked away from him, wordlessly.
I though I knew a beautiful boy. And he was beautiful. He had beautiful green eyes and he made me laugh. He had enough caution to keep his distance, but there was a light in his eyes. It was engaging. I wrote him a letter and he came to me in disbelief. I explained my circumstance and he made me laugh again, using his funny words like he has always used, lighting up his eyes that engage girls like me and keep us wrapped in his web. A friend of mine told another friend that we were lovers. Alas, it wouldn't have happened, ever, because he is beautiful like chasing fireworks, blowing in and fading away.
So I realized that my house is actually a man. This house I've been building around me, brick by brick, layer by layer, beginning with the foundation, moving along, slowly. This growth and progress I've desired is this image of a man. I build and I destroy what I want this to look like because it is ever-changing. Right now, my house is a beautiful dark angel, with his beautiful smile and his beautiful dark eyes and his beautiful lips and his beautiful body and his beautiful hands and his beautiful heart.
Do not be alarmed when I destroy him too, for he is merely an image of what I decide to create.
I'm going to need to learn to take.
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