night owls (things said in a cocktail dream)

Roses

“Feelings aren’t facts.”

“Let’s run away together.”

I watch this girl pound on closed doors, locked too presumably, as Stevie Wonder’s greatest hits play in the background on a record player in someone’s backyard. Are there windows? She can’t tell, but she knows there are others inside rocking themselves into a stupor, or strumming until their working class fingers bleed. She knows, she knows of the need rising up from beneath her, this cajun spirit shaking the rafters, dying to be told, to tell.

Why won’t they let me in? This round little girl tries again until her own fingers bleed. She can feel their half-hearted cries, gentle hugs in a surprising windswept storm, held firm between self-recrimination and forever, even though she can’t touch what they see as real as Godzilla, the unicorn in the trees, the memories of the dead, that boy who loved her once on Juniper Street before—

With music and words, she will replay their stories until her own is finished in the guiding born of sun. Her own a jumbled one, waking up reluctantly from another dream, where she cleans up messes strangers leave behind. Before it’s time to go, she stows away grandmother’s jade, a TV Guide from 1972, the nice German lady’s old bottle of spices, rosemary and thyme, a book of tone poems.

If you love me, I shall turn into the Wicked Witch of the West, a Whore of Babylon, Sylvia Plath on an orgasmic bender, rip my shawl, tear my cunt up into my sagging chest, eat the gorge, spill your aging seed, rub the scent over the carpet burn I keep to myself, a rape survivor dressed in her mother’s fuck-me heels and fairweather barkeep tights. For I do not know how to love in the light of day, warming my back, shuddering my virgin skin, a reciprocal waltz of equals, a fairy tale romance come to life, Cinderella and Snow White, livid in white, acceptable in His sight. You said this, and then I respond with that, you see how this works don’t you?

So, I leave this round little girl bleeding in the wings. The faucet’s on and the oven’s off, and they’ve left another mess.

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