Melted butter

 

The summer sun spreads

like melted butter,

sandwiching the sky

and the land below.

 

And I lay, thinking

of that face, that hair.

That smile caught

in glorious eyes,

the beauty that sways

inside the heart that stole mine.

 

And I'd gladly never

reclaim that heart as my own.

 

For that heart is a memory

forged from molten stone,

and belongs to her alone.

 

But if I was to break

this spell, then would the love

shower in warming rain,

or would fierce storms

throw their shade on me,

drench me from head to feet,

leave me in tears.

A seat at the table of grief?

 

So, I let the thoughts

never breach reality,

a beach never to feel its sea.

A shoreline

out of the waves' reach.

But I still leave the words

for you to feast, a meal fit

for a queen.

 

Table set, I walk away.

 

But then as a new dawning

sunshine beams down on me,

I feel again that pull of love.

But now I'm happy,

because my heart still beats.

And the heart of desire

can be replete,

knowing that someday

the plate will sit empty

when I return

to this seaside sanctuary.

Lab rat

 

Prised wide eyes dart around.

Prismatic lights, discordant sounds,

grinding tones, dental drills,

and chaotic moans.

 

Strapped in place,

mind blown. Fragments

sewn into seasick soul,

laid out on cold stone.

Clinical waste, metallic taste,

highs and lows

rush through veins

as time slows

 

down

 

to a

 

tick.

 

Then a tock.

 

And I focus. Closing the blinds.

 

I am prone.

As you probe.

Prod, and dissect.

A lab rat, a caged animal,

tagged and inspected.

A product of an uncaring world,

where the different soon get

neglected.

 

You cut away, slicing deep,

every part of me shown

in microscopic fidelity.

Every part that shouldn't be,

tossed in a bag to be incinerated.

Burnt offerings to some unknown deity.

 

Slivers sit in petri dish towers, shivers

sit quaking in my spine for hours,

as the tweezers tug at every nerve.

Searing pain in my soul as each strand

is stretched to beyond breaking.

 

And I'm shaking inside, but my

heart still beats loud. For you can

pick apart the surface, but you can't

keep the love down.

 

And I feel the restraints tear from my skin,

pulled hairs stinging,

but my soul is singing,

and I stand proud. As the

ticks get faster...

 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

 

And I reach up shouting,

what more do you expect of me?

I am but a human with

a few flaws and defects,

but with love that can flood the decks.

Smoothed edges

 

You can iron out the wrinkles,

watching as steam smooths the creases,

flattening crinkles that don't fit

your perceived image of me.

But what is left? Evaporated days,

erased in a cloud of vapour,

memories thin as paper, wiped clean away.

Singed edges on a torn picture of me.

A shirt on a hanger, with nowhere to go.

I'd rather be a crumpled-up

reminder of living full flow.

 

You can smooth the ridges,

trim descriptive edges, rip out

the artistry, leaving only

empty sentiment, like sediment

dirtying a paint pot.

You can erase the pencil sketches,

leaving only clean, precise ink.

But whose image sits on the page?

I'd rather be a rough draft,

scribbled with passion,

than a picture of perfection,

painted without loving attention.

 

You can stretch me taut

to fit the mould you brought,

warping skin into place,

pulled tight until it's ready to split,

a plastic bag, its contents straining.

But what is left? A mask or a face?

Will it just dissolve in the rain?

Me, or a person you plucked

from some mental imagery,

to create mimicry of the world

you perceive to be in symmetry.

 

You can sand away discrepancy,

chisel until it's a carbon copy

of someone else entirely.

But what would be left of me?

Just an afterthought

caught on the breeze,

a prayer brought to my knees,

a softly spoken word or a shout.

The whisper in the trees.

 

Or you can soak me in desire,

drench me in passion.

Set alight the touchpaper.

We can burn brighter

if you accept me for all my flaws.

Take my hand and I'll hold yours,

and show you a life

beyond the same tired doors.