note: another one of these. let me be sad. trying to get into the habit of writing more often. i'll write about something else at some point, surely.

Tact latch
Separating Heaven from
-- Hell
The dream was split
Coddled to your breast
Warm bodies during warmer nights
Smell of dirt and dust
A ballad of my taste on the air
And you puncture me
And you expose my ivory cage
And teasing situates bone to bone
The wound is frozen:
Crimson only on the patch
Of my residue, flattened,
On the detachable carpet
We curse each other in succor

Eden returns,
Though never gone.
She finds proliferate dust still whispering,
“I love you,” to itself,
In the viscous, honeyed tones
Of sparkling, dusty bodies
Gently bathed in gentler rays.
The dust looks in the eyes of the lover
For the deceiver.
It dreams both dreams,
Wishing or trembling of the other.

That is what I wrote in my daydreams, anyway. None of these things ever happened, except in the artery of my mind responsible for nourishing me on my most lonely days. I wonder if those lonely sensations are what brought me to you. I wonder if that is a cruel thought.

I think a lot about the story of Eden these days, in case my incredible subtlety masked that. I want very desperately to be naked with the flesh of my flesh and not be ashamed. I do not really seek it out, though. I am much too afraid.

I have only slipped once when I saw milk and honey on the pink-lipped, button-nosed, pear-shaped face of a girl I hardly knew. It came on way too hard. What was I supposed to do, not find it adorable? I still do.

It spoke to me with such a gentleness and vulnerability that prodded at the locks of some splintered gates that I keep tightly sealed. I could not help but match the pace. I was too curious, too apprehended by the wonder that threw itself at me.

It always kept the window in the back of its room open. The light would enter unremittingly, touching everything with inquisition and cycle. I felt unsure to be intimate with that portal to the outside lurking and morphing the contours of every surface, whether organic or inorganic, but I did it anyway.

I told it things that I have, truthfully, never told anybody else. About some of those great wounds that can only be shown to people who have them, too. I felt safe in our little exposed garden. For the most part.

I still mechanized those behaviors that I have assumed to defend myself from penetration. I looked for the hints of abandonment, of reality, in the saccharine den of golden rays we shared for a time. (In the psychiatric-traumatized construction of my person, the white-coated categorizers would call these behaviors “symptoms of my BPD.” They might call the intensity of feeling that I garnered during this episode that, too. I vacillate on this idea.) I was honest about having these thoughts that I have learned to keep to myself. It told me that I did not have to worry. Ye shall not surely die.

Those fears entered truth. I am reaffirmed in my worry-patterns.

Anger and regret bubble in heated thuds on the walls of my mind. I feel betrayed, deceived, naked and cast away. In my own room, the window is tightly closed. My world of objects is illuminated by a faux-fluorescent lamp on its own daily cycle. It does not turn on at the right time today. Something halts the mechanical function.

I do not bother to fix it. The light has decided its own course. My room is thickly gray. Shapes are only visible by the small traces of light that hide themselves, the ambient and afraid ones.

I cannot hold the anger. Malaise wrestles it for the blessing of eminence. Loneliness is a stronger sensation when a referent for its absence is in proximity. I want to be angry, I want to feel deceived and enthralled and excited by the deception that I have undergone.

The cruel reach of those feelings halts at the image of that soft face, at the sound of that darling voice, at the remembrance of that roseate light. I open my window.