But the truth is that walls aren’t much for listening. And you’re miles away. All of this is for nothing, really. Just a way for me to have my cake and eat it, too. The selfish things we do for love because it brings us back to life and makes us feel something greater than the blood pumping, hearts rattling in our ribcages.
Before him, there was always you.
When you would write to me, I swear I could hear angels singing while I read and silently bled out all of the tenderness that I have for you. I would appear to you translucent, ghost-like, and give you everything. All of me impalpable. Appropriate for the ways in which we seem to always haunt each other.
Your words are your sharpest weapon of all, even when you do not intend for them to be as such. Sometimes, I imagine my wrists are bound, and you’re standing above me reciting poetry. I could beg you to touch me, but I know that you won’t. And that you shouldn’t. We’ve already discussed how I want it all, and far too much.
I sometimes wonder if fucking you would fill in the blanks. If I could truly love you from a distance then, having tasted you. Having made love to you, rather than simply scrawled your name into my dreams from afar. Would your body intertwined with mine fill up the gaping hole that I’ve come to nurse so quietly? V for Void. V for Victory. V for Very Bad. Villainous.
I am a bad, bad girl. A corrupt child whose desires make her desperate to seek salvation in sovereignty. Always wanting to be crowned Queen while asking with my head tilted, with my eyes fluttering in your direction, “Will you rule me?” And I would let you. I have let you. But I still need to have my crown atop of my head every step of the way. Equals for obvious reasons. “Don’t go breaking my heart…”
You come and go, and it takes everything in me not to follow you. Down the rabbit hole, down the beaten path that is likely, maybe, to finally break me. We have been here so many times before, and yet somehow my patience, the purity of my love remains in tact. You emerge from the ground, and I always seem so happy to kiss your cheek and remind you that I was waiting. But isn’t that what dogs do? Wait for their masters? Loyalty, you called it. And I felt too ashamed to ask whether you ever depended on it.
If things were different, if this wasn’t so damning, I would make myself known to you in the way that love and loving and lovers do. But it’s not. We will never leave our palms unscarred from the wounds of wanting. If it is far better to lose than to never love at all, I am the defending champion. Again, the Queen. Crown my head with all of the empty promises that we want so badly to keep, but likely never will.
Eventually,
the girl on the bridge will jump.
Isn’t that how the story goes?
(Have you ever felt
great fear and pleasure,
both at once?)
Your love is an ocean in which I drown in my own desire. I am surrounded by it, and it steals the oxygen from my lungs as I force my own head under, circlet floating on the surface. I always said I could see you standing over me, and maybe you do. Maybe you’re watching me drown. I don’t know, and I’m not sure if you’d tell me. I only know that I love you and that it is killing me.
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