Godot in Her Palm

Red lace.

Anonymous? Not anymore. Not to me, at least. Could I be right about you? Volumes written on a sticky scrap of paper. My veins betray me. Ice up at the mere thought. Those boundless black letters. Weeping out for a second half.

Sexy pirate? A façade that isn’t. Plunder me, I suppose. That’s all I can ask for. I’d whisper my request into your ear. But you’re too far away. I’ll have to scream away the distance. That won’t do. They’ll hear. They’ll know. They can’t know. Can’t they? What of it? What of me? Hidden things are lost things, and I’ve never felt so lost. Find me. Help me find myself. I’ll fall to my knees. You can take it all. Take me.

Flesh out the sides. Taunting, scathing, cynical … words upon words upon skin. How didn’t I see it? Turn them on me. Thick skin I lack, but I don’t mind a few tears. They cleanse the soul, slick the skin. It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. Take me apart. That’s his Instagram. He’s ashamed. I’m not.

This is the epitome of danger – you’re in the same room. On another plane, unfiltered and full of life. Eyes like a lizard, jagged in the deep, careless floating on the sly. You’re standing on my body. You don’t realize. Six feet under a mass of filters. I’ve become just another one. A pawn to the censors. Step a little harder. The intimacy here is the only solace I’ll get. Filters amass against things spoken. You’re safe here. You’ve won them over. The filters are fans in your presence. But here the filters reach into the page. How do you survive? How have you thrived? It’s stifling.

You’re stifling.

Your energy – subdued in its vivacity – I’m envious. I want what you have. No. That’s not it.

I want you.

At the same time that I want to crawl away to save the sticky scraps of this burnt, buried, masked version of myself that you THREATEN. Your palm stings. You’ve got Godot in your grasp. My version, at least. Let me have a look. Take me. Mold me. Throw me away. I deserve it. I don’t. I don’t deserve anything you give me. I want it still. The enemy of great is good. There’s nothing good here.

Judge me so you can slap away the self-judgement. Hate me so you can untangle the self-hatred. Gag me until I forget the binds of silence. Insult every tattered bit of me – better yet, cut away every scrap of value – so I can learn to weather the criticism. This moth’s too weak to kick away the swathe. Tie me up so you can untie me. You can’t break something that wants to be broken.

You can’t break something that needs to be broken.

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