Above Her Fingertips

It feels like murder, even though she urges and directs the knife. It feels like betrayal, even though she mixes and begs for the poison. She said she wants the dragon to live inside of her pride. She told me: “I want to suck the marrow from your bones, tomorrow from your eyes, the blood from your lips, and the youth from your hair”, but she doesn't know I slew that dragon already. Manifold my delusions, yet each one is clinging to the hem of her skirt, and while she's firm beneath it all, I can see her withering, and the pain and joy sing discordantly until both our ears bleed. She's smooth to my eyes, like a lily, but rough to my touch, like sandpaper or peeling paint.

She's standing, or dancing, either way she's blurry and out of focus. I reach out to her and feel her under my fingers, she doesn't flinch or pull away, she presses closer, bending my fingers back to the knuckles. She smiles, or grunts, either way it's silent and still. I embrace her in my arms, she doesn't struggle or recoil, she presses further, putting her fingers to my lips. The door slams and I am woken up too soon, the dream is dead, but I still feel alive. It's sudden, but not unexpected.

As a slave she has no face, but as a friend she doesn't have a name; so I make a mask for her, and pretend her name is simple and pleasant, and her face is pretty and young. With needle and thread I give her back her honor, with chalk and duct tape I make her famous. Progress is slow, but I am not gonna give up yet, not with her soul hanging in the balance, small as it is, I still think it is bigger than mine. I split myself and in two, and each half grows on its own. I breathe in my thoughts, holding them in my arteries, letting them poison my blood.

Her hemline, a no man's land, is prudent, yet striking. And her eyelashes are a cat-o-nine-tails, just for me, yet as we wallow she slips away like smoke or a snake shedding her skin, moist and transparent. I can't hold her too tight, or she'll suffocate, she can't kiss me too much or I'll start to like it. I drift in and out of Want and Need, the mirror watches me, tears in her eyes. Resilient pupils and stronger irises watching unimpressed as I stagger and wander within my own wet-dreams. She sits in the corner, hands folded, dutiful skin showing, her jaw set and her lips quivering. A necktie made of bowstring, and a brassiere crafted out of barbed-wire, the height of fashion in wartime. Don't kid yourself, friend, the war isn't over. We've all got ditches full of Hers, and the bodies will keep piling up.

Halfway between Over and Before I am caught stabbing something soft and yielding betwixt my thumbs, and you will all swoon at my vocabulary, for so sheepish a wolf you've never seen. An image of the father, yet not divine. An image of grace, not fallen, yet incomplete.

It's a golden day, but not even the sunlight can wash the blood away, it sticks heavy to my shoes and her eyelids, obscuring any chance of beauty. She's coy and submissive, but she still manages to get under my skin and burn through what defenses I have left. Such a pathetic little corpse I am, rotting yet still kicking. She's pale, or I am sick. She's pretty, or I am drunk. She's naked, or I am lonely. But we both know I am gonna regret this in the morning. Slimy skin mingles with smooth flesh, emeralds with tears beading in the corners, her face flush blushing bright, I hold her down until she tells me I am the only one for her. And I sob until my mouth is dry, and she dissolves under the weight of the rain, and I'm left alone again.