empire

{ mediocre aphrodite, pt. III }

you don't clench your thighs when you see her / nowadays / and the hidden part of your mind / where you used to keep thoughts of her / with an arched back in a nest of sheets / and a porcelain neck twisted into the mouth of a pillow / has been all but erased / and sometimes you wish / you could feel her papercut colored lips / pressed against the hollow of your throat / but then you remember / they smell only of smoke and taste only of disappointment

smoke because she likes the feeling / of death perched between her teeth / cigarettes seem to be woven into her skin / and disappointment because she has become / a shadow of a prayer / something people turn to / if they want to see former beauty / she is no longer mediocre / and you find yourself wishing she was / wishing she would toss her head back into that thicket of clouds / and remove the thorns from around her neck / wishing she would transform into your aphrodite 

but she has fallen / her quivering hands couldn't remove a heart from a chest / and her vodka and tonic eyes no longer / burn or intoxicate / they only stare / and you still listen against your bedroom wall / for her humid summer breeze breathing / but you only hear arguing / and you see her sobbing in the bathroom at midnight / more and more lately / but you don't feel sorry for her / you don't feel sorry for her