If we were a play, we would not be Romeo and Juliet.
Sure, we have that insane, quick desire for a love that is too short and too fast— and we'd kill for each other. We kiss in poetry and sleep with our arms around each other and dream one day of a far-off wedding. It is a love that can never be and yet exists anyway, and I can dreamily stare off into space and pretend our ghosts dance forevermore in the streets of Verona.
But the stage of our play is cracked, and it is wrought with blood.
I rather think we are like Macbeth. He, with his trembling hands when he kisses me, is like Macbeth slitting the king's throat. The guilt, the fear, the exciting lust for power sliding its tongue across my teeth— it's us, it's all us.
Oh stars, hide your fires. Let not light see my black and deep desires.
His grip around my waist is like stolen ruby goblets, like a cold crown and shivering limbs, like madness and betrayal and a drop of moonlight that will reveal the future. It is like falling to the floor unable to recognize yourself, like bloody, shaking hands, the dagger falls falls falls.
And then he snatches it back up, and we're kissing again, even though we know we shouldn't, and I'm whispering, "A little water will clear us of this deed."
And when we break apart it's like returning to royalty, except now being a queen is no fun at all, and I have to murder murder murder them all to keep my crown from slipping.
I'm sleepwalking. I'm dreaming with my eyes open, but I can't see, I can't see anything in the darkness without him holding my hand. And I'm frantically crying, begging, stumbling to my knees. I'm asking for forgiveness, I'm demanding why I can't wash away the bloodstains on my hands, no matter how hard I try.
Our love is the strangers around us and paranoia, our love is melting candlesticks at night and shuddering in sleep, like a flickering movie. Our love is the long, dusty soliloquy Macbeth brokenly whispers when he finds his wife is dead.
Our love is Macbeth desperately tossing away his shield and letting the sword of his enemy pierce his chest, just to forget the last screams of his wife. Our love is Macbeth falling to the ground, defeated at last.
Yes, our love is poetry, but of the darkest kind.
[CURTAIN CLOSES.]
a/n: from an old book of mine.
