SMALL TALKS

pretty?

i wanted to know what it was about people being so caught up on expensive jewels and gems and crystals, all because of the way they would catch the light, all because of the way they would catch people's eye, or the way they sparkle, or the way they shine; never being initially noticed for the what they could me made into, what they could become -

but i'll start over. so you know what i mean.

we were a little like that, you and me. you told me i was only there to look the part, i wasn't there to write or act or build or run or draw or sculpt or run my tongue anywhere near your earlobes, because you could do it all by yourself. you told me to smile, and just relax, babe.

we were a little like that because you held doors for me,

did you think i would collapse if i were to do it myself?

we were a little like that because you would always put in a word for me,

did you think i would smear lipstick across my face, across everyone's headspace if i were to speak for myself?

we were a little like that because you'd feed my head from your fingertips,

did you think mine were broken? was you too scared they'd break everything around me? because i know i didn't have to lift a finger when i was with you.

we were a little like that because you only gave compliments about the outer shell: the carcass.

but how is that right?

would you spit compliments across a rotting corpse because they had all the features that could make them pretty?

would you take that same corpse into your home and cradle it till its long eyelashes drooped half moon crescents across their sallow cheeks because it is pretty?

would you plant a goodnight kiss across the corpse's cracked lips, whispering everything about how it blinded the audience with its outer shell, and nothing about how its words could make you feel like infinity and nowhere all at once.

would you raise that corpse like a baby? take care of it until its pretty eyes bled murder across the ivory white bedsheets, until worms were crawling out of the spaces between their rotting ribs, gnawing, gnawing, gnawing away at everything it had left?

wouldn't you notice if the skin was to melt away like hot wax, would you not burn your fingers, would you not care that it was crumbling to ash and dust beneath your fingertips, would you not care that it would come crashing down, down, down, smattered into nothing before your unblinking eyes, would you not notice -

tell me you'd notice.

tell me you'd look for the spaces in between the ribcage.

but it's tragic,

because even if you do,

it might be too late for you.

you might find it's already dead.