Somewhere between silk sheets and silk thighs, I lose myself.
The bed is big, big enough for two or even three people, if the mood takes me. It’s big enough for the tangle of limbs and lips and long, hard breaths. It’s so big I could disappear and never have to wake up in the morning to find myself alone.
Because I always wake up alone:
The blonde boy with a dream on his lips, who looked at me and said “I want you…”
The red-headed guy holding a struggling freedom within his chest, who gazed across the bar with bedroom eyes and whispered “I need you…”
The dark-haired man, with cigarette burns on his eyelashes, the one who grabbed my wrist on the dance floor and screamed I love you until it bled…!
All gone; all memories erased by the first ray of light.
I’m dreaming in the dark, marking memories into tanned, sun-kissed (sun-scarred) skin. I want to be alive so badly; I want to laugh and breathe and break and love. And I think: if I press myself into the living hard enough, then maybe that life will rub off on me, like mascara on a white pillowcase.
But they are just night-dreams, that wash away like badly-applied watercolor in the morning. The pinks and lilacs and lavenders and silvers drip down into the lush carpet, indented with my bare-feet footprints, the same dance I trace every day: Love me, stay with me, cut me, let me bleed until I am nothing but a empty shell--a shell I can crawl out of when it no longer fits.
Become a beautifulblondesexybombshellbabe like the goddesses on the television. Cut out my own eyes and replace them with wide-staring blue Bambi marbles. I wish my hair was white/red/yellow/blue anything but mine…
I wish I could do that: shed my black hair and tanned skin, (eyes like wet pebbles under a white, foaming river), forehead stained with red, red, red like the sheets I’m sinking into as he presses me deeper into infinity.
I see black eyes, framed by thick blue glasses that have fogged over (and must be the only reason he’s still calling my name; because he can’t see me as who I am) and pale, pale skin.
He’s calling, crying, weeping, screaming my name over and over, and slowly I am pulled out from the silk sheets that had taken me wholly. He calls love, love; need, want, adore, angel in womanflesh.
(Is it not there: doubt somewhere between the black eyeliner and the muddy converses…? How can he love me; imperfect, fragile dreamer who wakes up alone in that big, red bed that bleeds loneliness and can fit two, maybe three people if the mood strikes me?)
But he does; he does, he does, a million times over. And the bed cannot contain my joy: spilling out like a shining watercolor waterfall: red, blue, purple, white. And I love myself with sun-kissed skin and hair like raven feathers, forehead stained with the joy of love.
I have found it: the line between the darkness and the dawn.
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