assassination of character. by ohellohara, literature
Literature
assassination of character.
now i'm a warrior, burning
cigarettes against my skin
to build a suit of armor
and sharpening my teeth
until the backalley cats
get jealous—now i'm a
scientist, traveling inside
rubik's cubes only to
discover that the colors
blend in desert sands—now
i'm a doctor, licking bodies
and dressing wounds
in red robes, just in time for
the royal gala—now i'm a
conductor, setting the mood
for the last dance where
king and queen are killed
by men in native masks—
now i'm a scavenger, sewing
vulture wings into my back
and roasting in the sun
Dear ____,
You make me think of stardust and eclipses.
You make me want to drown in implied sensation,
And all to real reverie.
You make me,
Me.
I wish you didn't remind me so much of Romeo.
I don't want to be Juliet in a tragedy.
Not a noble or princess,
Just a girl with a love and a dream.
For so long before you,
I'd been making myself into poetry.
Musings carved into me,
Blood red on snow white,
Thinking it was the only way I'd be anything beautiful.
Now,
All i want to do is write.
Write every thought,
Every feeling,
Because I didn't feel before you.
I remember what it is to breath.
To love.
To my Romeo who hopefully isn't,
With you,
we dressed our
salt burns;
purloined ribbons
& bone crowns
spitting static through
our buzzing t.v. teeth
you're a silent migraine:
blue-blooded, honey-soaked
[& i want to be something
too pristine to
touch]
stepping into a pub
clicked black stiletto girl
coat ruffled up to her ears
said she came in on a reindeer
he wants to take her to the theatre.
he wants to rub her skyscraper legs with
his poshpocket cane in the noise of a standing ovation--
sir, you are the star;
she loves you.
she really loves you.
she wants to decay in the bottom of his glass.
she wants to shut the curtains behind her as he grins.
she wants to lick his yellow teeth till they are marble white.
she wants to be ruins for tourists--
ruins for tourists?
ruins for remembrance,
art for the knowing eye
mona lisa, they love you;
they really love you.
She is a rain-soaked
neon sign at eight o’clock
on a Thursday night.
Her light is too cold,
pipes twisted, full of fluid,
I’m open, she says.
The door is always open
Isn’t that what I’m here for?
Isn’t that my job?
Hollow, dim, dull,
there’s not much else she can do.
Come in here, she says.
At 1AM on
a Sunday, she’s still open.
Chemicals buzzing.