In your dreams, or rather nightmares to you. When you close your eyes, is it me your mind drifts to? Do I linger clotheless and bare, sweetened in kisses, or do I reek of cognac, drunken with blisses? Do you paint me a pretty portrait in shades of reds and blues? Crimson (for anger) and blue (for sorrow) to form a sheer purple bruise? Do you see my lips on glass, or my darkened eyes in the fluorescent gleam? Do you see my limbs in bark and lumber, or my hair strands in hanging seams? Do you see my perspective on inked pages, or my essence in oceans so shallow? Do you see my heart in a daunting crowd, or my soul in the corner shadow? I know you must see me sometimes, or at least have some detection. Perhaps you are unwilling to admit—you see me most in your glass reflection.
In chirps and cheers and vehemence and voices. Do you find my limbs underneath layers of noises? Do I come all lonesome in seduction-doused whispers? Or do you find me in your own sound, recalling my soft whimpers? Do I purr and pout, or do I stir and scream? Do you trace me in voices that derive from friends or fiends? Do you hear it at night—the wolf weeping in scowl? Have you thought of my pretty, loathsome mouth and whether it could muster such a howl? Or has your imagination gone rogue and betrayed you in stealth? Tell me: what dubious thoughts are forcing you to question yourself? Do you ask if it is a soul or a spirit? Is it a ghoul or a ghost? Do you disregard it to spite your fear? Or is your response to it what frightens you most?
Do you flavor me rancor and harsh, bitter and sour? Or are you kind enough to imagine me as sweet as a flower? Do I taste like the rim of a glass when the drink has been poured and drunk? Or am I the ghoul-like smoke that you smell from a cigarette when it has been smoked and shrunk? I know you must taste me now and then, in tongues and lips and kisses. Is it your filthy secret finding the mistress in your own missus?
Do your fingers quiver at the sight of young women in dresses? Does your hand clench when you see a duo of almond-shaped eyes and curled tresses? Is there a twitch in your frolic when there is a whiff of alcohol? Or does such a tremble come when your phone sounds a call? Your mattress knows that shiver, as does the floor. The wall, however, has memorized it most. (Your knuckles must be quite sore.) Does the thought of me indulge in sparkles and glimmer? Or does it arouse a temperament that sits down and simmers? Is it anger that you have gained over a love that has been lost? Or is this a feeling trifled with fight or flight that you have so delicately fought?
It is my loathing for you that lights us, my anger that has gone ablaze. I have despised you freely and sober in a drunken daze. I loathe you for your treachery, for your deception and your treason. I loathe you for the ache you have evoked, one so brought upon without reason. I loathe you for this gruesome illusion, for you fabricated a deluded mirage. I thought it to be an eerie dream, but it was a nightmare in a callous façade. I deride myself the most, for believing when under a guise. You made a bed for us to sleep upon, but you did not lay, you only lied. Oh, I could despise you forever!—for being so cruel and so grueling; I was so life-ruiningly beautiful, and you were simply just life-ruining. Perhaps I truly deserve this ache, for all farewells I had refused. I loved you, soul and face, but I disregarded that you had two.