literature

I Call Myself Names

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Literature Text

"You have got to stop thinking about
yourself negatively.
It isn't healthy."

He said after another day of sleeping,
eyes flashing bright and blue
in the dark room like a were-cat's
   -- wide as flying saucers;
    knowledge never-ending;
    bound to my kiss.

There was a frown upon his lips,
and it pulled at my clothes
and struck my heart like an iron gong.

I had originally wanted to
glower at him begrudgingly,
all the while shaking my head.

But his unrelenting determination
has left cracks in me.

So instead that night I gaped at him,
thinking wistfully
    - temptation to hope seeping throughout me -
and it was warm and filling.

At the same time,
however,
his unyielding forget-me-not gaze
reminded me how I was on tenterhooks, 
as they say.

There were stars in his eyes,
old magic in his whisper,
rare tenderness in the way
his mind cradled mine
just out of the reach
of
    self-infliction;
    obsession;
    curses.

Wonderstruck,
I brought him to me,
too frightened to fall on my own
like he was suggesting.

What if things only got worse?

After all, I am based
on
    doubts,
    errors,
    fears.

His own heart was steady;
his concern only the first tier of his love.

"It's alright."

He spoke to me with great care,
his blue stare coaxing me out of my hiding places.

All the while,
I tried to hold back,
as it is banned to talk about
giving yourself freely to someone,
and I've never,
ever been the type of person
who could simply let it all out,
nonetheless to him.

Anyway,
if I recall properly,
there's supposed to be a struggle.

I'm supposed to remain stubborn
and stony-hearted.

It's 'normal',
they say.

What is?

All my life,
they've given me nothing but grief
and pointless task upon pointless task,
unable to offer me
    conclusions
    or fulfillment
    or blue-eyed buttons.

Just confusion
and distractions.

Because the truth is you
know you're normal
when you're already born,
and if you're not,
if they find out later
that you're the opposite,
nothing can be done about it.

This story was never supposed to be
the traditional happy one.

"Nonsense."

His voice boomed.

It was kind,
but stern as he plucked my fingers
one by one,
determined not to offer me promises
no one could possibly keep
    -- only the ones he knew would stop me mid-sentence
and catch on my open palms.

Nor condolences,
for each loss had led me closer to him.

His lips hovered over the very tips,
confident I would soon start thinking sense.

"Impossible,"
lounged itself off of this weak,
dried-up tongue of mine,
to which he breathed out a laugh
like a dragon breathes fire.

"My dear,
oh how I love you."

It was like he saw things I couldn't see
    -- things only princesses conceived.

"I love you."

The idea that a few words can have such
an effect on people
has never ceased to surprise me
    -- I being one of them.

Sometimes I imagine I'm blushing
as his fingers purposely brush mine
    -- his stubbly grin swimming behind
the questionable tears in my eyes.

He held onto me with all the power of a man,
never once considering I wasn't equal to him.

But when a woman has trouble shouting,
she needs a man to lift her from her lowered gaze.

To heave out her skeleton so that her skull
can be broken
and so that she will never again be lonely.

"The words are lost on me."

I sighed in self-exasperation,
shoulders dropping,
sheets we were entangled in scratching ruthlessly
    -- mouth contemplating and tasting strawberries.

He shivered before bowing before me,
presenting me with the only thing of its likeness
in existence.

With an instrument of creation.

A pen wrapped in velvet.

He told me to use it whenever I remembered
we walked the same path.

It would be my voice.

It would be the life
I took back from
the scum of this planet.

I smiled at him then;
starry eyes to match;

    entrusting him to want to remain here;
    entrusting him with every kiss,
    hug,
    and piece of fragile intimacy
    God has woven into us.

Because I know it's likely I'll sink into sadness
if I don't have someone to believe in every day,
and while he may not be a hero,
he belongs to me like I belong to him.

And honestly,
at the risk of another cliche,
I wouldn't have it any other way...
No matter what anyone says or thinks, I do love him. And we are happy.
© 2015 - 2024 melegram
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