Joined: 13 Dec 2010
|Posted: Sat Feb 08, 2020 5:19 pm Post subject: DAWN'S GATES
He threw my life across the room and it should have exploded, shattered, splintered, but it all slowed and pooled into a living thing. Blood turning black lines into true blue and dew, polishing marble in sweaty half globe beads, the memory moving in and out of my mouth, like gills made of jello, the memory made to rise around the pants at Angel’s ankles, the chime of buckle clank and rip of zipper, my fingernails clacking like lobster claws, his toenails rimmed in hymen blood. Not mine.
My blood impales his feet to the earth, the soles rusted in clots of flesh and forever, souls ruined to ever walk again, without hitching limp, foot to foot. The wounds gape round and raw, from feet served as two loaves of dough, boot laces marking the lattices of sinew and knuckles of bone, like a sucking mouth, or vagina, voicelessly wording “mercy, kill me, carry me, You. Fucked. Me Up. The always virgin bleeding in both of us wondering how “was I not good?” was too good to ever stand without shaking, our souls slamming against the forbidden to be so goddamned sure, and burned to the ground, not quite able to be upright again. Our home was made with all the stuff we’d ever be of us, grave or gravity a terrible pun in such a nakedness even the moon blushed and the stars winced, the world went away. We did murder time and memory, filling the vast dearth and hollows of all life in the other’s unapologetic face. We held us up to move in dry toast and cold tea, dismissing the need of truths “ I want my life with you” with lies shaming us for thinking we deserved better: “I don’t.”
The hair on his legs waves, in tidal flow of in and out, thrust and withdraw, like seaweed cocks, tick and tock, past and gone. His cock hangs, confused by the beating, the color of raspberry sherbert. My neck leaks lost tears—his- mine, and ours; the blood thumping in pulses, some marker of what happened with no map where to start to go back from somewhere.
Dawn throbs in me. I wonder if Angel’s balls weep in the wonder of Connor, which of the sperm made Connor, or in the fear his dead heart, or the hollow breath of death that lashed something loose in the tatters of his lost soul?
Those black ink veins, write all over his alabaster flesh in crazy maps leading back thickly to a heart that doesn’t beat. Clots of cum are popcorn buds, stuck like clouds on bedspread skies, mini Milky Ways of promised stars and whole lives, a womb turned inside out, gasping surrender for a child we’d die for, but can never parent, in a bed I wasn’t supposed to remember in some rumple of us, hot and human, raspberry sherbert red cunt and earth brown flesh, flopped helplessly across his exposed modesty, alabaster and newly wounded sprouting from the moon, an arrow from insane black wool covered in promises lived, in too much, never enough, never again again, storm heavy, too wet to break, the newly minted, malted smell of him, with sun-dusted sea air locked in his hair, sand shine and tears freckling his shoulders, curved away in wings, pulsing in the hollow of his throat, to dash themselves in dunes and hollows of slashed light and bone.
I touch his lips and they stretch to bounce against his blunt teeth, his cheeks flushed, a smile rising, damp and honest as Dawn’s sweaty palms finding home in mine. The lines in Angel’s mouth haven’t erased fully the chapped memory, of Acathla’s mouth swallowing every screaming-jawed O! the eternal frame between us that ends every thought shape, but is forever raw feeling, the heart’s blades in massacre—the shock it was over.
He ruined me for anyone else. I tried. Hard. I couldn’t conceive of him with any other, but Connor proved that always and forever were time shares in seventeen. It was Willow who told me he fucked Darla to kill me, over and over, until a blood child of me and him took shape in evil, tearing my womb to miscarry every tender hope, end paradise for dirty girls and nasty boys, for the unfathomable, for all I can’t claim or hold—fierceness for my daughter, my sister, my Glory-love child, that melted any weapon of man or monster.
I didn’t know I was done and even Angel couldn’t humpty the Dumpty of vowelless words, then and there, at our vigil stone, beached alone in shifting sea, sand, and sky. Connor gave Angel weapons, wings, something bigger than love only love can cure: mistakes we make a curse to never understand we were the answer all along.
But we didn’t know that then. We never know that then; and that is the home we built, that he threw me against, that broke my life in a dance around Dawn and Connor, wondering if our tears would finally, finally, let us drown.