you told me once, your favorite flower:
lily, any variety, they are all so pretty
or so you said, leading me through darkness to your bed
I followed, oh so willing to be your reality
you lean in to kiss me
and suddenly, the presence of others is suffocating
figures of shadow-others crowding, mourners at a funeral procession
petite bodies, whispers of smoke
they’re watching, a mockery
the whites of their eyes
oozing down chins like slime
brimming with you, so full of you, my heart feels bruised
fuller lips and better kisses
wider hips and longer blisses
the crushing weight of your past lives
squeezes, squishes every liter of air from my insides
until I am a flat, compact sheath of skin
and you’re whispering, I want you to be mine
but all these shadow-others are watching, hovering
the aroma of roses is smothering
their fingers groping, slender tendrils coiling like rope
a noose, a noose–voices that won’t let go
shoving themselves down my throat
and I am choking with swallowed words
you told me once I was so small
compared to who, I’ve always (but never) wanted to know
once about the good friend you wanted to–but never did–take to bed,
opportunity missed
about the one who told you No
because she’d been cheating on you for a while
and all the urban princesses know you by name:
but maybe–maybe–that’s a good thing
Thirty-Five Others, you told me once
and I thought, I am Just Another
rose in the bouquets you collect
beautiful as danger
or so you said, mentioning the one
who slit her wrists and went mad
but your hands are cradling my head,
your lips peppering my neck
you lean in to kiss me, and I think
in bouquets of roses, I want to be your lily
but when I open my eyes,
those shadows linger nearby
Just Thoughts 