Hands to Pillow Your Head
“But there was no wound she could give me that I had not already given myself.” ― Madeline Miller
You’re sixteen and you’re staring at a beautiful girl
The vicious envy programmed in your brain
Has long vanished
And there are only thoughts
Of her. And the moon. And her hands.
And the way she says she loves you
And waits.
But you never say it back.
It’s a death sentence
Its a trap.
Because she meant it as,
“I love (being around) you.”
You flinch as she points at the moon
You only know love coated
In violence and abandonment
Something with layers upon layers
Of bitterness until it is sweet
You were force-fed forgiveness
And had nowhere to spit it out.
You can’t look at that lovely girl in the eye.
“How beautiful. How wonderful. How lonely.”
She was talking of the moon
And you ruminated on the sharpness
Of those three words
Inside your throat.
How they were tighter than every noose
Adorned around your neck.
What a lonely hand.
One that falls and rises.
She moves like the sea
Breathing life into every little creature
That leeches off of your love
At the bottom of the ocean floor.
She blows kisses at the moon
Knowing they won’t ricochet
Knowing that this love is a one-way ticket
That you’ll be stranded
At the platform.
You made a choreography
Out of the cadence of her fingers
Tap dancing on the steering wheel.
And you sit there waiting
For the crash.
Hungry.
Frigid.
And lonely.
absolutely adore anything that you create