06-05-2023, 10:41 AM
We stand across from one another in a chamber of my own creation,
diaphanous walls pulsing a muted rainbow.
The curve of your nose is off, the angles of your cheeks wrong.
Testimonies of time passed.
I take a step forward to cup your face in my hands,
and your skin feels like rubber, not like what I remember.
I want you to touch me.
I touch your hair, I touch your lips, I touch your waist.
You do nothing.
Neck, wrists, ears, elbows.
Nothing.
Imperfect features glow in an orange vignette.
Frustration is a thing of friction, and from its sparks my hair catches fire.
I want you gone now.
I push you as hard as I can, shove repeatedly.
I hope my nails across your cheek sting as much as your apathy.
Your hair shines through the smoke rising from mine, so I grab it and pull.
I need you gone.
My rage is a booming storm of flame and thunder
trying to earn a grunt, squeal, moan.
After a final push, my hands try to mimic the stillness of yours.
In the quiet, you come flooding back to me.
Your cool water leaves steam in the place of smoke,
reminds me of why I came here to begin with.
Fire dances differently.
Flames are erratic, a bed of orange fingers reaching out,
yearning to touch something foreign
before changing their mind in slippery retreat.
Steam rises with persistence, with tendrils that twirl in tandem,
upwards with unity and determination.
I need to join it. I need you gone.
I search for your scent in the air,
a sharp inhale repaid with an empty and flavourless sigh.
I place my hands atop her head and push downwards.
I must go down to go up.
Surely the pain of unreciprocated emotion weighs more than her;
her legs buckle quickly, she is a knot of the floor.
I scoop her in my arms and squeeze as tightly as I can.
I push and scrunch and squeeze, condensing her into a ball I can hold in my fist.
When I toss her aside, she leaves along with the weight in my chest.
Lighter now,
I rise dancing in steam.
diaphanous walls pulsing a muted rainbow.
The curve of your nose is off, the angles of your cheeks wrong.
Testimonies of time passed.
I take a step forward to cup your face in my hands,
and your skin feels like rubber, not like what I remember.
I want you to touch me.
I touch your hair, I touch your lips, I touch your waist.
You do nothing.
Neck, wrists, ears, elbows.
Nothing.
Imperfect features glow in an orange vignette.
Frustration is a thing of friction, and from its sparks my hair catches fire.
I want you gone now.
I push you as hard as I can, shove repeatedly.
I hope my nails across your cheek sting as much as your apathy.
Your hair shines through the smoke rising from mine, so I grab it and pull.
I need you gone.
My rage is a booming storm of flame and thunder
trying to earn a grunt, squeal, moan.
After a final push, my hands try to mimic the stillness of yours.
In the quiet, you come flooding back to me.
Your cool water leaves steam in the place of smoke,
reminds me of why I came here to begin with.
Fire dances differently.
Flames are erratic, a bed of orange fingers reaching out,
yearning to touch something foreign
before changing their mind in slippery retreat.
Steam rises with persistence, with tendrils that twirl in tandem,
upwards with unity and determination.
I need to join it. I need you gone.
I search for your scent in the air,
a sharp inhale repaid with an empty and flavourless sigh.
I place my hands atop her head and push downwards.
I must go down to go up.
Surely the pain of unreciprocated emotion weighs more than her;
her legs buckle quickly, she is a knot of the floor.
I scoop her in my arms and squeeze as tightly as I can.
I push and scrunch and squeeze, condensing her into a ball I can hold in my fist.
When I toss her aside, she leaves along with the weight in my chest.
Lighter now,
I rise dancing in steam.