she as a metaphor

it is just another one of those she is a metaphor for love things

another contrite deluge of longing in metaphor and is given the form of her

who is she

she is the shadow of jayne mansfield behind a silk curtain

the promise of dangerous curves

her voice is sultry crackle of tobacco on flame

a syrupy drawl

her eyes are two cartoon fires dancing with a false incandescent mirage

she is always just out of focus

never quite real

pieces of all the others

and when she speaks the crystals floating suspended in your inner ears snaps to resonance and you get that happy little reward center release of endorphins and you feel alive and alert and unstoppable

or she would

if she weren’t a frankenstein’s monster mishmash nightmare that should never see the light of day

and she holds you back

you start to imagine she has to exist and you fall in love with her to the point the fiction and the fact are interchangable cogs

and you don’t know which sounds better

reality

or this sick fantasy you have crafted

you know which is healthier

sure

of course

but

bear with me

sit

please

coffee or something a little

different

shhhh

the fantasy is unhealthy

as is the fear of being alone

who else wants to sit back and watch idiotic videos all night

or has that weird ocd thing and hates watching random videos because it then peppers his feed with stuff he immediately regretted watching but sure another hundred videos of creepy old men reading lovecraft

they exist

watch at your own peril

the rabbit hole that leads too

next thing you know you are watching a video about the only known swedish parapelgic otter team and the scientists trying to make their tails swish

and sobbing

just full on snot down your face ugly ugly ugly ugly crying

the kind you only do in moments of intense pain

or because the kid with downs is amazing and the eradication of downs syndrome deprives the world of a different outlook

but also

hmmmm

it is a strange feeling as a parent when they do the blood test and check for it

first off the needle was not, it was unnecessarily,

i didn’t care for that because my child did not need to get poked and i was legit pissed off at the doctor

overprotective from the womb

not attractive

and when the results come back and you are beyond excited

but you know if it had been the other way you would love the hell out of the kid forever

you would

but you are happy that isn’t the case

and you have this moment of crisis of mind where you have to really ask what kind of person are you that you were overjoyed when the results were negative

where the fuck did that come from

oh boy

the strobe light is playing in the back of my head and everything is overly emotional because i am sick and everything is shit

so she dances in my head

my unattainable dream

just out of reach out of focus out of reality

the meteoric metaphoric phenomenon of mental lightning and depression

like paxil withdrawal

but you need that to cling too

and then you over analyze it into words of bitter resentment

you are ugly like the tears you shed because that is the most vulnerable you there is

that is when you are one hundred percent open

rage and sorrow and snot and tears and red faced bellowing to the empty skies above and non-existent pits below

you just scream like a wounded ape

and you throw yourself into an endless cycle of what if scenarios that hey increasingly far fetched but somehow more attainable at the same warped time

and the little love poem you had every intention of writing becomes the grisly post mortem

a crooked y sewn into the chest

and the marbles where the eyes should be, carefully scooped out in your darkened living room

not the pretty thing to brighten the mood

a procedural instead

you had one job and after that you pretend to be a writer

not good at either

“he looked across the table, falling into her eyes, frozen tropical waters drew him in, the promise of long gazes at sunset quickened his heart

she was perfect, out of the most secret poem of a fifteen year old in love for the first time, not a blemish, the sun in vibrance, staring causes spots, she is burned into his retina”

but

she isn’t a she

she is a metaphor

and it sucks all the beauty out of it

while suffusing me with hope

somewhere out there

maybe

she exists

7 thoughts on “she as a metaphor

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