The smell of rotting agendas always waft in your wake. I’ve grown accustomed to your sand storm daffodils. It’s not what you once were, but what you could be that still intrigues me. Potential, potentially terminal, with velocity. Sniper taking aim, the looks you throw with abandon. I lie still sometimes and pretend I can hear the screaming in your eyes. I would have given it all for you, you know. I do not think it would have mattered to you. You are the song Reptile by The Church. I can see you sauntering and stalking in the sun by the beach every time I hear that song. Which is often, ’cause I like to pick at open wounds. The bloody mouth of puckering pink skin attempting to heal is such a turn on and a visceral reminder of your violence, my violet-skinned lecher. Your Krispy Kreme coochy-coos hardening my arteries. And then, slow syrupy suicidal sex. Something in me went dormant when you left. I vaguely remember why, but it’s fuzzy like flash backs from a blackout or a bad trip. Which I only had once or twice, but that was more than enough to keep from doing it again. I would for you though, if you wanted to. Crashing around in the forest at dusk under deep November skies and yelling fuck-all to the universe. You were always the spark that started Devil’s Night. A goddess of Bacchus’ loins. There was nothing I would not have done for you. I died when you left. The husk remains, with the frozen portraits of your jack o’lantern smile burned into my retinas. My skin still shudders with the traces of your touch. My gypsy witch, evil love cursing the hearts around you like a speedball on fentanyl on meth that is the last run of the roller coaster and heart is pounding and I will be with you soon and my veins are flame and my heart is a jackhammer and I will be in you soon and I will kill you soon and soon I am coming for you my beautiful malady with the melody of death on my lips… and a fistful of sand storm daffodils.
image courtesy of Pinterest and Awkward Family Photos