Your girl is lovely. An inspiration to all the ways I will never be. Take her simple model, the easily owned and flaunted. You can mold her, you know. She prays to the Lords of price tags & floats several lines below consciousness. She’s a robot of propaganda and her words an inaudible broken record of conformity.
But you and I, we had a special need in those nights under the thick and bruised sky. We took pleasure invoking pools of candle wax to use in our unpublished games. You petitioned sounds to rise from my throat and relished in their death as they morphed into a shallow heat, passing through my lips. With skinned knees, we cupped our every frustration and I could hear the extra beats that tumbled from your heart.
Your wish was my law and I adored the delicious and wicked game of serve the servant.
But my love, my love I shall collect all those days and let you inhale, on my final exhale. With the fever of the sun’s demise, I will not coax anymore salt from your pores. For when I realized the other spaces between us, I would never surrender. Even if I was bound, gagged and tortured I could never become that girl, the girl who will change for you. I’d rather be me. A soul unwilling to be molded by anything other than her own divine fire.
And for that I Vow.
I vow only to fade into the skin of another who is uncaged himself and hungry for a fellow, messy gypsy soul. He will feed on all my imperfections, the very ones that make me inconveniently perfect. His friendship will hold steady the ladder I climb, so I can gather stars from the gods above me and within me. He will help me paint the world in the deepest colors and exorcise all the shades yet to be discovered. He will take guilty pleasure in observing the gears grinding in the engine of my brain and will devour everything I unleash in the name of fierce truth and love. He will have already greeted himself at his own door and been privy to magical secrets that I yearn for him to disclose. His courtship will be full of space, a playground he knows I need, to open doors of my own, on my own. The train of our wild pasts will have been derailed in a parallel space, both awakened to the gift of such wreckage. I will beg to take all of his pieces, take them apart and honor each one in all their chaotic glory.
He will have tasted sorrows, a warrior to the familiar path of countless beginnings and never ending, endings. He will be humble and willing to crouch at the starting line next to me, of all the beginnings that we are sure are still to come. One who will swallow and easily digest where I’ve been, what I’ve lost and where I will wildly and unapologetically go.
Because I am simply real, as real as they will ever come.
And I’d rather be me.
Your girl is lovely Hubbell. She’s an inspiration to all the ways I will never and could ever want or need to be.
Vintage Classic Katie