I’ll keep writing songs for you. I’ll keep writing them till we’re both black and blue. Till you ache and complain and can’t hear them the whole way through. Till you’re begging and pleading that I keep my lips sewn. It’s just, I’ve been icy and white for far too long, like a ghost you created and mist in the fog. You forget and I drift in the sheer green sea. The water doesn’t change my magnetic tendencies. You may be floating far along but I will always be a bomb beckoning, anchor activating, unattractive, missile prompting, targeted, weighty submarine. I am what the feeders eat and the waves release; white foam encircling those irises that you always blink. But I will sing until I seep inside the borders that you’ve built. Sneak under the windowsill fabled to lead to a privy marine. A galactic swirl of fibers and streams that lock away the secrets you keep, the thoughts that you think, the way that you feel and all that you seek. And when I achieve that silvery key I will bleed from the eye to land in the deep. I will crawl from the white to travel through blue just to land in a bleak refuge; the darkest, blackest piece of you. Where all the light aims to shine through. It ignites all objects to your center of attention. Where every image earns accession to be in the line of the sight you reap. Where I yearn to sleep. But I cannot sleep. Because in the eye of your storm I will never be rescued and I start to turn homes into haunted recluses. The eye of a storm painted in bruises. Painted with black and bice excuses. Hues of abuses form an act that confuses the heart and soul of a girl made of fuses. Her every strand of hair is lit by the match, and the fire expands, gains and never chooses. A host is decided as one that amuses. One that continues to remain ignited under conditions as persistent as wind, pain, and liars. A host that emotes all her days but never tires. Her fringes never fray. Her audacity entertains, and her skin is making way for purple popping veins screaming under a layer that’s ghostly white since she was left alone in the cold, dead, night, and all her fatigue implores to see is a hint of new color to contrast the chalky. What’s juxtaposed is bleak, but nonetheless it completes a validation that he was not simply part of imagination. A bruise is a proof of sincere infatuation. That his existence was no figment; gives his eyes authentication. That the journey she traversed was certainly real and certainly hurt. The blacks and blues in the back of her mind, in the pens that she used, in the ink she’d imbibe, the spine realigned by the stunts she designed, the sunspots dyed on the tops of her eyes, of bottles of beer that were treated like wine, of headlights and patterns and sidewalks and time; reflective moonlight, glasses of brine, clothes against clothes, the chambers of her chest surrounded by smoke - cyan lamp heads - mania induced panic, promises broken, wounds left open, tears on cheeks, sad words unspoken, in the sight of magic, on the crust of romantic, sirens and crime, personified retreat now transoceanic…. on the top of my tongue, on every word from each of these lines… of this poem that I speak. Black hair, blue eyes…… Black hair, blue eyes… Black circles in disguise, in the midst of two eyes. Two colors in my every dream. And I’m cast aside like a bomb beckoning, anchor activating, unattractive, missile prompting, antique submarine. I hit the stones where I heavily sink. Depressions incise on my metal outsides and the vessels all burst till I can no longer breath. I can no longer breath. I can no longer do. From purple to blue I sense it diminishing… I close my last lash, and it’s black and it’s you.
Ashley Zarah // 10.20.15 // Midnight Pondering