I’m fertile right now.
I can feel it in my mouth, my womb.
There is something that wants to be birthed, and I’m not afraid.
I need to level up.
Invade this egg, this seed.
Ask it questions.
Why the pain?
I watch the soldiers in trees, my haters.
I’m an emotional mess, a lonely bitch.
Let’s forget the emotions, let’s get mental?
I’m made of metal, of bone.
In the early hours of a late night out, he asks
“Do you want your old life back?”
“I’d rather swallow glass.” I answer
He lets his chiseled frame fall on top of me.
I feel his hot breath on my neck.
His mouth on my shoulder.
His eyes on my heart.
This loneliness though, it is a low hum.
It is cavernous.
It breaks my heart.
On weekends, I focus on the mundane.
Get down to the mundane.
There is a world that lives in our small apartment that is ours.
We are the Master.
A world where he paints portraits of me, and I watch myself age and wane, change shape.
My eyes he draws,
blind and heavy with sleep.
A mouth curled,
Sad blue-rimmed eyes.
“A pretty artistic coincidence,” he says
Little Girl Blue.
He sees me.
He sees me while I cook.
While I listen to him talk.
While I dance to disco.
When I smoke.
When I laugh.
When I cry.
When I smile.
When I sleep.
When I wake.
When I die.
When I resurrect.
Portrait by John Collins