“… for a drop of blood”
Sourness is brilliance misunderstood;
or so it seems when the fantastical is robbed of the magical,
supplanted with wayward, youthful idealism.
Broken backs over the coffee table
are the reminders of an affectionate touch,
like a bull’s dedicated horns piercing surgically through the abdomen.
I’ll tattoo these if the scars start to fade,
tracing leaked fluid on pages as cherished mementos,
shedding weight by the ounces of blood cried for loss.
Gloss over in reds and purples to cloak the diminished sum.
Tally up to win when victory is a love letter’s fantasy.
The irrational rationalizes come the invasion of isolation.
Wasn’t it good when everything was good?
Rosey eyes paint flowering depictions of bitter pictures.
Weren’t we perfect when it clicked out of shape;
a frame of scattered objects jagged enough to ever break?
And I held your tongue at the tip of my teeth.
Do we dare to speak and reveal what passion hides?
An arm roughly revolved behind in a gesture of control,
so willingly bent to be at the knee of the beloved opponent.
A voiceless plea cries out somewhere subdued in shallow motions,
stuck between the nonexistent space crafted by colliding motives.
Survival of the most ill fitted to survive
as guaranteed by our mutually conflicting alibies:
The feast is the sustenance on which we preserve
and for which we can justify a lack of loneliness inside
despite the moments when the pangs surge into consciousness
when the onset of realization announces its advance.
Another ride too close to the sun’s arms
while failing to stitch up the singes of relief,
bursting out in sighs that confuse content with conquest.
Placed in front of the promise of voyages to the uncharted,
surrounded by the unrelenting gray that intrudes by the day,
I’d go to hold your tongue at the tip of my teeth
and swallow back the words I actually want to say.
It’s easy enough to lose count of my shattered bones.
One more cracked on the table can’t hurt after all.