Playing languid games with you, sister, on summer afternoons up in the attic room.
Time would seize and the world would disappear except when interrupted, we always knew how to keep an ear out for any kind of sound.
Do you remember that pleasure of little fingers finding each other out? And I would see you quiver, only slightly, as I touched the many lips on your map.
We were so happy and proud. We were sacred then, in our oasis where nothing was forbidden and no one withered away because they ate. We paid tribute to our hunger and no one stopped until they were satisfied.
What happened then sister mine? Do you remember that dreadful day when we began our first lessons in food?
Learning to measure Want, like it was an ingredient in a dessert recipe; Only a teaspoon each for us, any more could turn flour to stone.
How easily we lost and looked away from each other. Hate flowing between our legs, hate lying where we had lain. That was the last time we went to the attic room. The last summer when heat was word.
We never speak now, you and I. Lovers have come between us, with their armor and their weapons. It was always a war out there and through all these years we were molded to be honest soldiers. Shedding our clothes when the orders came. Singing an anthem that no one ever bothered to know the words to.
I could no longer bear for you to see me, how ugly it is this cold steel mirror I wear as a face. And on those nights when I dream of you I wake up with fear crawling around me. What if you died? What if we both did? No one would be the wiser because when they killed Desire that summer no one really did notice that the light in your eyes had stopped burning holes into the sun.
You had once saved me with your love. Now the time has come for me to jump and I know you won't hold me back. You won't make promises that we have already broken. The world would've been a better place, had we the feet to stand. But those too were cut, to use as fuel for the fireplace one winter. How can I tell my children a story again. I cannot hide the shame on my face. The shame that comes from letting a love to waste.
1 comment:
i know you told me about this and when you wrote it...but now that ive read it, iam left speechless...and oi...love...its not wasted...the remains too, are used as knowledge or as a story that you wont tell anyone and will pass you by as you try to push yourself to sleep...they shall be...and its a shame that it must be reduced to something as petty as that...funny how that works...but i guess that's just the way it is.
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