FICKLE HEART

Fickle Foxy Voxy

Crazy how many poems come out when you are kindling with words to be torn out from you. That is how I exactly feel as I scrawl over the pages of papers I borrowed from the stack Elon kept in the last drawer of his office desk in his room. I can't call it our room. I read over what I have yet:

Saliva drips. Fangs out.
I crawl under his bed.
Waiting to sneak a claw in.
I have been waiting.
For such a long time now.
To puncture my claw right into his neck.
I am the monster under his bed.
Ready to attack when he is sleeping in his bed.

I am stunned by the salacious rage I have over him. The words were of truth. Maybe I should just hand this over. However, I knew deep inside somewhere I was just venting my feelings out. Not that they weren't honest but they were over the waves of the sea. The tip of the iceberg. As a writer, I seldom submit anything unless I feel the utter immortal veracity etched on those pages. I don't crumble the poem away. I keep it in an empty file that I also stole from his desk.

I read another:

Dream of crystal light.
Pouring out of darkness.
Never again I want see that face.
Marring with void that never saw the sun.
I grow cold.
I feel down.
I can't see the light anymore.
Painful aches.
Terrible days.
These are lonely days
Without the sun anymore.
Where should I go?
When the sun hides from me still.
Letters of sorrow.
Paper of death.
I seek the light hiding beneath that dark face.

There was something in this poem. A curse of some sort. I place it gently beneath the last one I read. I rub the heels of my palms on my eyes. It was late. I look up at the clock. Very late. I stayed up all evening and night to write his stupid pathetic poem so I can finally leave when it's time. I don't know why I'm giving my every energy into this. I haven't even started the first line of my article and here I was, writing poems left and right. However, I can't really complain. The joy of writing poetry is all about feelings and emotions you can't know what to do about. The art of writing your thoughts so personal it becomes humiliating and raw. That you want to hide behind it. Not stare at it. That's poetry. Whatever it is, whatever it needs to be.

Maybe that's why I haven't started my article yet. It lacks the purpose behind it. The purpose to fulfill something deep in me.

I roll over to my back. My head hitting the soft pillow. I pull at my white small tank. My shorts riding my ass. I wore this because that's all I really have. I can't sleep in my silk pajamas anymore now. I can't begin to think what would happen if I had them on.

A stupid idea shone in my head. I spring up and go into the closet. Shuffling through my stuff, I find those nude silk pajamas. I hold it up, contemplating. It was a raunchy little piece. I purchased it on a whim, thinking I would have a boyfriend to seduce it with. Elon isn't my boyfriend! I scold myself suddenly seeing the stupid flash of the future. He and me cooking over the kitchen counter. I trying sneak a green bean while the whole time he smacks my ass for disobedience. Another image passes through my mind. We are sitting together in the movie theatre. Me engrossed in the movie while he sneaks a kiss or starts to give me a hickey. I redden.

I pull off my clothes and put the silk pajamas on. The top has thin straps holding them up. Shorts that could show half of my ass. I look in the closet's tall mirror. I must say I do look like the next femme fatal. In pajamas though. I quickly head back into the room only to stop short.