1: 02: 34 P.M.
the sun ate the stars on a wednesday evening, and it was beneath this unseen paroxysm that you coaxed smooth the creases in my silk-sheet skin and filled a chalice to the brim with something turbid. heaven's wine, you were quick to assure at my wary glance, and i reasoned it only appeared so unbecoming because my eyes were unaccustomed to holy things. i forgot that you were raised off silty river water & the sky's blood, and that when they called you a saint, they snarled.
nonetheless, i doubted you were inherently malign. perhaps that was foolish to think, when you were so clearly more metal than green, and when you did not even try to deny your kettles were truly rusted sepulchres. even more naïve a thought considering you were hypocrisy embodied, spitting the word magic like it was something rotten when you knew the art of ensorcellment like a second skin. my hoi polloi lips mistook the balefulness in your teamilk for honey - commonness is lethal, is it not?
at ease i asked for a snack, and your gaze burned like a wasp sting as you sliced the peach meat from my palms. lost upon me: my puerile trust mistook it for discomfort, thought the sibilations rolling from your forked tongue a hymn of caring. i was parched, and you knew it — so mixing laundum with boiling water, you told me heaven's wine, once more - and it was rat poison, really, but my tongue had been raised off gruel and could not tell the difference.
☽
my poetry got worse! hoorah.
let's blame it on the fact that i'm
12 & not on my sheer lack of talent,
shall we?
YOU ARE READING
IN ARLES
Poetrydrop by my house at half past noon; we'll make small talk of murder over chamomile tea © VANGOHS, 2017
