Pan

I stuff cotton
balls into my mouth;
they dry my words
up like they're nothing.

I pray you wish me well,
wish me safe and intend
to willingly sacrifice
everything you have for me.
I'm the alpha butterfly,
transforming to a malignant
moth. From there, stagnant
crocodiles will preen
for my affection.

But perhaps I've met my match,
finally. She's a firebolt, jolting life
back into my deadened nerves.
A masquerade beauty
that hides and refuses
to tell her own truths.

I mimic her every
movement, making a travesty
of her elegant grace.
I bumble around
like a honey heavy bee.

I sift through her hair
and get high off her coconut
scent; she drives me
crazy and makes me want
to be better ((than her)).

I ride in her car, acrid
smoke tearing up our eyes.
I leave my feet
on the dashboard, making
her car submit to me, like
I want ((I'll have))
her also do. Her fingers
skate over my forearms,
making them prick
with recognition.

I tie her up
inside my womb,
protecting her fragility –
her feisty fights and
all her maddening woes
are grinding
between my teeth.
I crush her paranoia
with my cuticle, as if
it weren't but an ant.

My Aries pride
will never allow me say
of my adoration and my
need of her tongue. It lashes
at my soul gently; I'd
cook it on my brain
if only I were able.

Oh my sweet angel of death
with your dilapidated words
strike down my anger and hatred.
I have hate for you like
I'm a teenage daughter.
I'm in love like a homeless addict.

Fattened me up
merely on your glances.
Been atrophied so long
by my own fear ((of what,
I am still unsure)).

Mismatching emotions form
a cacophonic symphony to
pound on my temple. It runs
like sewaged water, it hurts
like my dead baby
has been torn from me.

I paint my lips with
lilac sugar, hoping to
entice her to take a dare.
My pusillanimous cheekbones
forever deny me any prettiness.

I decide I'll call her
Peter Pan, for I will
be her Wendy, trying
to bring her down and
remind her of filthy
reality. "Peter," I say
my voice always mocking,
"if you're going to be
a lightning bug,
you will never learn to love."

She laughs and calls
me silly, plucking away
at my doubt. She takes
the cigarette from my lips
and demands to know why
I'm so eager to be adult.

I stutter over a lie, hoping
against all hope she cannot
read minds. Her eyes flash
a little something special
((oh god, what if she knows?))
but I reassure the little girl
inside that it was just
an evil trick of the light.

I choke fireflies
with desperation as she
suddenly disappears. "Peter!"
I call and wait, timidly,
for an answer. I pace
around my airy house
freezing all the while. I decide
to shave off my goosebumps, but
as I settle down ((disinfectant,
of course, sitting by my side)) I
hear her. Again she calls me
silly and, not for the first time,
I truly feel like it.