My tender armageddon

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Okay, so this is awful? Literally everything I write now is bad

Submitted: April 11, 2016

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Submitted: April 11, 2016

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She is nothing but light. And by that I mean that she actually glows. Her skin is not anything more than skin and still I continue to believe that she is made of something more, something brighter, something less prone to damage. I tell myself that the brilliance of her flesh could fill a whole room, from the floor to the ceiling, or that it could spin stars in the wake of the apocalypse. She is nothing but rose petals thrown into the abyss, accompanied by the words: "Look! Look at this! This is my thanks to the war! Thank you for not succeeding in swallowing me alive!" She is nothing but the sweet scent of magnolia; I bury my nose in her hair and I breathe in as deeply as I can. I spend that moment memorising the fragance because I am constantly fearing the day I will not be able to. I am endlessly awaiting the moment she turns to me with her cherry lips and gold eyes and says the words that I am terrified to hear. I cannot write them. I fear that if I do so, they will immediately become true. I think that she must live inside me. In the breath that fills my lungs, in the tendons that move my hand. I say this because we are so entangled that I cannot begin to tell where we seperate and become two individual beings. Maybe we aren't. Maybe we are lovers reborn over the centuries. Maybe we are an exploding star eternally stuck in the half-second before detonation. 

Maybe we are two satellites spinning through empty space with no way to reunite with each other. 

I am a wolf in love with the moon. She is the moon. 
If I press my thumb onto the glass of my window, I can hide all evidence that the moon was ever there. I can erase all existence of her and I can begin again with no knowledge of lavender girl, pink sunset girl, roses and magnolia and light personified girl. I can lie to myself - better than I do now. I can make-believe that I never loved her. I can rewrite my entire history and say that our relationship is not a shipwreck. But instead we stay in this beehive pitched into the river. We break each other's hearts and call it love. We make a lasso out of our yearning and throw it around each other, pull one another in. We kiss each other ashamed, touch each other dirty. She swings her fists, clutches a scalpel and a butcher knife, I have only my beating heart as a defense. I bury her alive and leave her for dead. We make a reckless crime scene, all bloodstained fingers and crimson teeth. 

What a successful failure this love has been. 


It is a hard job trying not to love her. Which is why I have made the scarecrow. And a cuckoo clock that chimes on the hour, pops out a wooden replica of her and shrills out: "Stop loving! Stop getting swallowed by the beast! Stop writing poems about her so you don't shout them into the noise!" I am constantly aware that my body once knew her hands, her shoulders, her knees. All this distance between us now, always distance. An entire ocean to cross before I can reach her. All that lonliness. I have become so familiar with my own skin thanks to miles that refused me hers. I will continue to love her, even if it is a mistake because she still fills an entire room with her radiance. She is still rose petals and magnolia and cadmium red lips and Indian sun eyes. If I need to I will hoard her name in my mouth, keep it safe under my tongue.

I will dedicate my life to the religion of her; my tender armageddon. 


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