I don't remember what I used to look like and my face is a bullfrog version of itself, puffed up and ready; for what, I'm not too sure.
I want to call you all the disgusting words in my library vocabulary, but what comes out is, compassionate, intelligent, insightful, just beautiful in every angle, every light, every definition and all context of the word, and I mean it because I've lived to be only viewed because of the brilliant light of the women I stay near.
I used to be hot glue holding together your home-crafted Christmas ornaments, and one day in the summer, it got so hot that I just melted; and these other components bobble around at the top of the box, and on the tree, and I, melted glue stick, slump at the bottom of a cardboard box. Visitors don't stay long because there's nothing to hold onto, and there's always a more beautiful place to be than where I am.
But I swear happy things come in twos; you, and you; her and her; him and him, him and her, they and they and them and 'us' just isn't a valid word when I drop it from my lips, like putty, and it feels as guilty of a lie as my blue scarf wrapped thrice around my face so you wouldn't look.
And you wouldn't burst into tears on a sore bus ride home, thinking about how our friendship was one of two pinky fingers, wrapped around one another, like you were the stars against me, and we made the deep dark sky. Until now, because people tend to mention how beautiful the stars look tonight, and forget that without the dark abyss behind them, they would just cease to exist as well. I guess it seems not, and if you cried on the bus ride home, well I would have held your hand.
YOU ARE READING
Virgin Moon Phases
Thơ caMy first official collection of poetry and prose written by yours truly, the brush fire witch. I take my writing very deeply to heart, and if you read it, I hope you will too.
