Revised: The First Ferris Wheel Burning

From the photographs I’ve seen,

You’ve adjusted to motherhood as if you always knew those skinny hips of yours were made for it. She sits snug on your waist and you watch her with the most precious intent.

8 Years Ago, during some obligatory Saturday night drunk dial you once slurred softly,

“Desirae, a monster lives inside of me.”

And I always thought that’s why you were so intent to make yourself bleed.

As if you needed a reminder the day your dads screaming sounded like the

only soundtrack you would ever hear play. His muscles twitching like nervous ticks, veins bulging against dark brown skin, threatening to rip.

You needed to show him.

That, despite his desperate attempts at domination, you still had the control.

One quick kiss from a thin blade that you had always loved more than you loved me.

“Desirae, I’ve set a date. I’m writing my letter. Don’t you dare fucking miss me.”

You sent your final words to me so casually. I sat, motored heart and

immoveable,

trying desperately to contain the chaos gripping me by my spine.

It’s been five years.

And still I sit.

In a transparent act of selfishness, masquerading as selflessness I

shackled myself to the hollow echo of your voice.

Quiet.

Dark, brittle quiet.

I still hear it in my hope for a better future.

Still feel the way the ringlets of your hair curled against my skin. Jet black against warm brown. We were beautiful together sometimes.

But you always looked away when the light was just right and I could never clear the gravel in my voice enough to make you see.

Here is a definite truth.

You were my first sin.

I labored for a love that did not want me.

Wasted countless sleepless nights getting fucked up on your narcissism.

Watched your self-pity nectarize and dribble down your lips.

Listened as you counted off on your fingertips all the reasons you didn’t want to live.

Your demons took shape as you shaded in their faceless lines and gave them names.

Which as a writer (and you were one then) is one of the most significant things you can do.

Name your demons.

Call them out.

Ashley Elle,

I’m sorry I couldn’t fix you.

My hands were tied as you bent your spine in hopes of reversing your crooked view of the world. I’m sorry I couldn’t iron on the apathy you use to be so fond of.

“Desirae, we’re all going to die anyway.”

I’m sorry that those boys broke your heart and instead of punishing the perpetrators of your pain you victimized yourself.

But most of all,

I’m sorry I wasted my time on girls who’s cracks reminded me of the way your tongue sounded when it lashed out.

“Desirae, I don’t care I’m just curious.”

You left teeth marks in my heart, no stitch could fix.

Pinched at it when you thought I needed to be reminded of where I’ve been.

“Desirae, I fear you have forgotten me.”

Impossible.

You sleep inside the hollow of my heartache,

cradled close to my collarbone.

And no body on top of me has been heavy enough to suppress your memory.

So I gave up,

or maybe I just gave in?

Reckoned with my frightful, rightful truth.

I would live my life alone because I would never have you.

Spend my time, wasted with wine, picking out women who

if I squinted hard enough in the sunlight, I could pretend were you.

The Replacement Romances for my Unrequited Love.

She smacked her gum when she chewed. A peach tongue with a penchant for passing out blow jobs for artificial affection.

She glided into my life glorifying her horror stories with nonchalance and a cheeky grin.

She marveled at madness,

I made a mistake in thinking she was mine.

Dear Ashley,

I wonder what I could’ve been?

It’s been eight years, but given the chance would I call you again?

From the photographs I’ve seen you’ve adjusted to motherhood as if you always knew those skinny hips of yours were made for it.

She sits snug on your waist and you watch her with the most precious intent.

Eight Years Ago, during some obligatory drunk dial, you once slurred softly,

“Desirae, a monster lives inside of me.”

But Ashley that baby of yours looks like sunlight on an autumn beach.

And though your eyes look like you’ve still been losing sleep,

they glow like fireworks, exploding with energy and fizzling out only to reignite and rip color into the night of a black sky.

More purposeful and with crystal clear intent.

Ashley, have you’ve found your reason to live?

Your daughter has chocolate eyes and the sweetest baby face.

I spent ten minutes marveling at the way I could see you melting as your husband held her.

I hope he loves you the way a soul such as yours was intended to be loved.

Fiercely.  Like flames licking at gasoline.

Warmer still.

And in the slim chance you take a second out of your day to remember wondering aloud about the demons who you were so sure dwelled inside of you, I hope you take your baby in your arms and let her breathing be the only answer you heart hears.

New born perfection. Brilliant brown eyes and your mothers smile.

Don’t let your darkness cast shadows across her light.

And one more thing?

Dear Ashley,

I’m becoming more than what you left of me.

Uncategorized

Leona View All →

30-something Mississippi queer. Bleeding heart with a soft spot for honesty and oversharing. Conquering corporate America and my own insecurities– one day at a time.

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