I don’t know if I can lust after you any more and that feeling is so strange. The urge is there but the push to do it has faded. You’re like a flower picked from the garden and wilting under the sun. It used to be something quite pretty but now the petals are showing their weakness. How much longer can you last?
This is tired, this whimpering lust. The forced need to suck the blood from your lips after biting my way in. Eye to eye so I can watch you flinch when the skin breaks. I want it but only because of muscle memory.
We’re like a long drive in the middle of the night. I need your voice to keep my eyes open and my mind sharp. You’ve been asleep in the passenger seat and my eyelids are getting heavy. Wake the fuck up, I need you.
So will you be gone eventually? Just like the girl with the killer smirk and the devil woman? Karen with the fluffy bra and the one with the legs and the smirk? The misleading girl who injected so much into me? Will you survive or will you be a memory of something I want to bring back but can’t seem to find?
Maybe not. Perhaps it’s just a hot day and a little bit of cool air will bring back your color. The pink and purple in your eyes. The lift in your limbs. You’re the one who survived the longest and if anyone has a second chance it’s going to be you.
Can we overcome human nature? Is there a point in trying?
When a little boy picks a flower, he picks the most vibrantly colored flower. He doesn’t go looking for it, he just notices it. It’s beautiful and he wants it, so he trudges through the garden and picks the flower for himself.
He doesn’t think if it belongs to him or someone else, or whether he has a right to pick this flower. There is no consideration that other people might find this flower beautiful and they would like to enjoy it as well. The little boy doesn’t stop to think of the flowers he tramples to get to the one he wants. The path is now strewn with crushed stems and petals from his triumphant charge.
As the boy gets older will he stop and think that the flower does not belong to him? Will he consider the collateral damage of trampling through the garden to pick it? Can he consider other people’s enjoyment of the flower as much his?
Is human nature the destruction of everything in pursuit of individual wants? Or is it the realization that there are other individuals with other wants that are just as valid as anyone else’s? Perhaps its both and one overcoming the other. That it’s the growth from one phase to the next and not everyone is able to complete it, and that’s why we’re in the world that exists today.
Hopefully we can all notice the flower and appreciate its beauty while, at the same time, allowing others to appreciate it too. And, maybe more so now, protecting the flower from those who haven’t overcome the urge to pick it.
The gods were petty when they made you. They were filled with rage from jealousy, so you were hid just below the topsoil. Now you bloom every spring and through the late summer, then die back as the cold resets dominion from petal to leaf. Reds, oranges and yellows take from pink and white. Fragrance is lost as crisp evening air blankets the sunsets.
Your heart beats a short bloom, barely able to take one breath among fifty-two. Colors dying back to mush.
You come back though. You need the cold to remind you how much you love the warmth, as if you could forget so easily. The sun is your life and without it you would fall, or refuse to grow at all.
And although you display yourself in many colors of vibrant beauty, you do not long for attention. Stealing away to anonymity. You don’t mind being observed, as long as it’s without witness.
You are a bomb that was too much for jealous minds. Healing gods with your beauty. Now they’re all gone and you remain, year after year. Beauty always wins in the end. Beauty never dies.
I’m a garden for every word you’ve ever told me. Every look you ever gave me was a seed that you pressed into my soil. Every time you said you loved me something else was planted deep inside my being. Only you could grow a bed of dirt into something beautiful.
Whenever your tears fell on my neck the seeds grew. With every kiss of rain you nourished what you planted and made it strong. The sweat we made together drenched my skin and pushed the stems higher. You make me grow and never want to stop.
But you only planted roses, as stunning as they are. A flowerbed full of roses and every color they come in. The roses, they have thorns, did you think of that when you dropped your seeds in me? The sharp prick of their tips digging at my skin as I pull up the ones you left.
These roses you planted aren’t all gone. Their pretty petals and sweet smells stay with me and I welcome them. Although, once in a while, I try to prune the wildness of their growth and the thorns stick in my skin and make me bleed. Other times I just let them run rampant across my garden and swallow every corner.
Such a pretty bed flowers you left for me. Each rose holds its own bite.