Limerence

A night of worship (sleeping on the floor next to an empty bed),

I am awake and ruminating on who ordered the crucifixion of my Greek chorus and if the executioner wants to kiss me still.

In the dullness of mourning,

I cut up old letters

and stick down my favourite lines with maple syrup in the pattern of wings.

A saccharine collage becomes feathered with tormented musings,

reinforced by the sturdiness of ever having been considered.

With nothing left, I prop the paper wings against the wall.

They are glorious and romantic and will never see the light of day.

I bite into my wrist and select a vein, pulling out strings to fasten on my new limbs.

Etched into the ruby vessels is the handwriting that decorates my forbidden project.

Unsurprisingly, the paper wings fit perfectly into the jagged openings of the two blackened gashes guarding my spine.

Secured, I admire them through the mirror.

They were made for me,

and for a moment, I feel beautiful.

Then hurriedly, I lift them off, set them gently down and drape a blanket over their angelic forms.

Guilty and embarrassed, I will break the rules again when I’m alone, when I’m honest, when I’m brave.