Spies and Discourse

            Stranger, made of smoke. You still wander through my life and make me tired. My eyes are blind, or at least unfocused, only for you. You drag my knees along the pavement and run your fingers along my veins. I want you, and I want to pry your fingers from my lips. It’s complicated.

            So here we are, playing the long game. You push me and I laugh, no trace of derision in the sound. I’ve studied this disguise for years, and I’m good at it. If things get too intense, tuck a lock of hair behind your ear and look down. The ground won’t swallow you whole, but it’s a good reminder of where you are. If you want to scream, dig your nails into your palms. Don’t admit what’s bothering you. Don’t look away, and don’t blink.

            I practice this play again and again. I tell myself that maybe, if I keep my hair like spun gold, if I widen my innocent almond eyes, if I look at people sincerely when I smile, all of this will go away. Maybe I can walk out of here and tell everyone that I was redeemed. Maybe I can breathe deeply again. Maybe I won’t use the sound of your bones cracking to sing myself to sleep.