Frankenstein

I can speak to things
and can hear them talk.

It’s like I'm god of paltry objects.

Two little white alien creatures I have for hands
constantly try to itch away,
the superficiality that’s been sprinkled over my skin
glossed,
glazed,
to make it glow with imperfection and flaw;

because underneath,
I am just entirely,
undeniably,
perfect.

So I want you to be my groom;
take a wooden comb
and brush my mystical skin
and scratch all the shine away.
Never mind the scars.
Every little scratch on my face
would make me more of the woman
I hide underneath this false presence.

I persist in the dream I make of you at nights
and in the morning,
you still don’t know why you want me
and what is this air I have around me…
the eccentric, exotic image of a mythical being?

and when I walk out to my maturity,
it rains dead butterflies from the sky;
then you jump out of my brain
and become an entity
like my hands.

I chop off all the arrows
that flow from my eyes
pointing to your hideous reality
to make myself believe
that I don’t know where this is going
and I don’t know that the air around me
is nothing but the stench of my old decaying soul.

I dissolve in your mouth
like that drop of fluid insanity
dissolves in the brain stew you have inside your skull

I drink every last drop of your brains

my lips are traumatized.

Frankly you were never my ‘type’
I recognize my own handwriting
and I don’t remember
ever writing that disturbingly seductive smirk of yours

This infatuation is not my style.

I think I might as well have stolen every little unworthy piece of you.

But you are entirely mine,
my own creation;

because you know,

I talk to paltry things
and they never lie.

and that cigarette that tasted you before I did,
told me that your breath
never smelled like Bavarian fruit cakes;

but i still dissolve in your mouth
in the dead fish smell of your breath
in a repulsive urge,
to stand and watch you
in the excruciating pain of your nescience.

It’s like watching a moth fly in the acid,
that I made rain over the city
that sprang out of my mind.

Do you know that under my bed
there’s a corner where I hide all the glossy shards of my flesh
and they dance
like mad little demons at night?

and they talk,
with their shrill voices,
about the softness of the rosy petals
I had for lips
before you stained them with your morbid touch?

but I don’t see that
I believe in that hollow hue on your cheek;
that thick saliva you drenched me in,
when you try to swallow all that I am,
and spit me out
to change the taste that oldness left in my mouth.

Now you’re my sorbet,
and I adore that whole act of confusion
with that broken look that says
I’m desperate for all the mending
that your white little aliens can do.

I fell for you
I fell off the high horse I was riding,
and became obsessed with creation.

I fell,
for you.

...and I thought I made you;
and all your totalitarian kingdom,
that parade of shamanic sweetness in your eyes
every time you exiled me to an island
looking for your nomadic heart
wandering between the umbilical residues
never reaching the shore
of the heart
I wrote in my bible for you to have.

But wait,
were you ever mine?

Jan 31, 2011