Weekly feature by: Rachel Geraci
Say something to me.
I need to hear a ring.
I can’t bear to see one.
I’ve started to believe your lies,
That the ruler of this universe
Is complete in cruelty.
But to digest this dream of you—
I have had too many problems with
Understatements. I am beneath you.
I sorely wish I was underneath you. Below.
Bellow. A nasty sound from the mouths
Of forgotten disciples. The ones you turned.
The girls with pearly skeletons as their present
You beat them to a fruitless pulp,
Shoved out to a broken, half-hanged door,
Out of your dishonorable,
Privacy is a must. Technology must pay the price.
This is Sodom. This is the South.
What was your aunt’s floral name again?
And does you mother understand suffering?
She doesn’t. She’s dead.
You are no freer than your brother,
Who spends many evenings a-dazzled,
Sincerely secretive Saturday nights,
Sneaking away just before dusk hits,
By and by, a few dozen brightly painted,
There were about as many ‘mares
As the days that have since gone by.
And to somehow believe in you—
Who could ever be so quick to deny
Such comfort, such solace? Warmth.
To feel warmly about those who gravitate.
I have disassembled your aged body in my
Sick, senseless mind. The rabbit hole.
Insanity. I have examined each
Of your many definitions. Closely.
You’re an expert on the subject.
And there, I have objectified you
As you have made an intolerable issue
Of my delicate experience. With you.
And what about you?
The ruched, rosy bits and creamy, freckled skin.
A once cancerous legion in the left-wing.
Tell me now, how does it feel to win?
I could not tolerate it. I am livid about it.
Those flaking, parched judgments,
The lack of iridescent, silver linings,
Boundaries, conviction, decisiveness—
Was there ever a piece of me broken off?
A piece of valuable commiseration?
Here is your consolation prize:
Knowing intimately of an eternal disguise.
Was there a piece of you that
Was made up entirely of only me?
I cannot possibly be the only one capable
Of understanding what it truly means
To feel so broken, miserably,
Crumbling into consumables.
Maybe this the height of all I amounted to,
In your eyes.
Eyes of rime.
The eyes to end all of time.
A beacon of pure pleasure,
And witty, calculated enjoyment—
To rub off onto your labia until you’re free!
That sickening, succoring, dangerous want,
Ecstasy that instructs your soul,
Rapture transforms you into a predator.
A cougar, they may start to say—in defense,
But push it away and find the spots.
Maybe I was underneath, all along.
A sure, subtle sleep.
Tomorrow, you’ll wake up renewed,
And you won’t be broken anymore.
You won’t feel the impulse to write again.
You won’t feel the desire to make amends.
This will be the last sobbing, sullen lullaby
With her rosy, beaming face branded on it.