Ovaries and Soap

Clear skies, they boast. Bright sunrise, they proclaim. Yet, connection, depth, intimacy, and all those old black and white photographs, they shun. They say, they spew, through spittle and spineless sophistry, settle, settle down, take a deep breath, take a long walk, settle, settle down. But I am split right down the middle, and they don't know what to make of it.

She gets so excited, and starts to dance with herself. And she can't get the smell of herself off her own skin. And I don't have the heart to tell her that her hands are bloody. She looks at me with those damned little sapphires, and there's such eagerness and youthful bliss in them. The neck is my favorite, no teeth, no eyes, no moisture, and no depth. But it's always so eager, and so electric. She isn't gonna like what she tastes when I finally give her my heart. She touches me where no one is meant to touch. I am worried about her and her strange gait doesn't lessen my pain. I am too far gone in my own shell to be anything resembling a stoat-the-baw, but yet again I loose sight of my own tongue.

They place chains about my arms, and plastic to cloud my eyes, still muttering about the miracle of the gold loop and the transient power of that THC rich construct they call: Picket Fence. I finger the fingers of the woman I love, and the man in the moon spits in my eye. Then I roll out of bed, and I can't help but claw at my skin. I look at my nest and feel a little light go out as I see the empty untouched place were she once dwelt, though then again, she never even knew my name. I slip on the curdled blood congealing on the floor, and I spit and swear at the floorboards, it's never to early to regret a bad decision. I rummage and search and track down some soap with all the enthusiasm of a man given the right to choose the means of his execution. I kneel, I kneel, I kneel. I can't remember what I was planning to do, then the metallic odor is thick again, and I vomit, there it is. Memory comes sliding out of my maw and onto my hands, the poor little bastards. Oil and ridiculous shades of pink fill my eyes and I start to scrub.

Her laugh is thick in my ears, and my thickness writhes, and withers away. I went to the flea market, once, and I still itch. They all tried to sell me their daughters, those poor little birds, oh how they sobbed. But they wouldn't even let me touch their sons, and so I stopped to think about what my lizard brain really wanted. They show me rows and lines and mountains of fair skinned nude little bodies, that they think will prick my interest, but my prick isn't interested. What's so great about a body that can't dance? Who wants a brick wall for eyes? Sure, sure, I'll admit, gold hair is nice, and blue eyes still haunt me to this day, but I've see those things used as weapons one too many times, and I'd rather grasp a dark haired soul if it meant I could really talk to her again. And ironically enough the market-men think I am the one without a fire and a taste for flesh. They're thoroughly convinced I don't swing that way anymore, silly little men. Don't they know I am more than bone and skin? Eh, it's no matter, I won't frequent their stalls, I won't have to face their hollow grins in this life again.

Let's connect the dots. When I was young She was always at my side, hair like sunflowers. Then when that red nightmare came upon her, and her heart began to beat in five/five time, she left me. So I staggered to another golden haired friendship, and this one remains with me still, though held back in a half-meant-to-be embrace. But then another one came strolling up from the riverside and from the rocky flats of nowheresville, she had grey eyes that never really saw me for what I was. So, she too, was taken away by the fury of her own beating heart. I am left with these burns and scrapes on my scalp and chest. And they wonder why I reserve my wrath for that which I find beautiful, silly little people. But then came those others, some of which I cannot name here, since it would endanger their erratic endeavors. So, I remain with those that do not say they love me, because actions speak louder than words. And I'll remove myself from those that say they love me just so they can lobotomize me into submission.

They jeer, joke, and jibe at me, because I refuse to let the beast run the show. They make claims, and draw up conversations like making a pair of shoes, and laugh at me for wanting to see their faces. So I am a small, little, weak thing in place of a man. Why? Oh I've asked them so many times and the answer is never forthcoming. They mock, molest, and mutilate my reactions, telling me only an animal relies on instinct. They can't see the irony in their regurgitated words. And they call me heretic. Because I am willing to listen to my own thoughts, and follow my own road, they label me radical, they libel me slanderer. I almost go blind from the irony. Because I am willing to take a chance for love's sake, and unwilling to reject that which I find beautiful, they make me out to be an insane little boy wearing his mother's clothes. So be it, I am not going to resist their illogical arguments, I'll just pretend I am deaf, that'll shut them up, I hope. Because as I knelt there on my knees scrubbing the blood away I found something, something buried in the crimson coagulated filth, something they'll never understand, I found in that puddle of shame and regret, in that pool of her face and her tears, I found myself. And I decided to let him call the shots from now on.