Her Refusal

9 Mar

I see only the frightened face of a child within. She has not lost her poignancy, but vacated all of her charm. She has not found use for true humor in quite some time.

Face is red, breath is short and desperate, bearing the foot stomping stubborn mask that is nearer to rude than reason, a sneer nearer to discarding than determined.

She does not understand the language I speak, nor does she have the confidence to try. she is unreachable and will bite a grasping hand that does not solely offer an apology and an admission of guilt. Offer love and she will vanish.

Inside her is a dictator and a tyrant. An offensive, thoughtless tosser of derision and misappropriated condescension. And yet, she is just a child. Meanness knows no age, and does not discriminate, but to gain her own “pleasure”.  A game that refuses to test my proposition of the deepest game of all, no matter how magical may be my silly dream.

There are soft flowers that wilt and let seep the moisture from their stems. They fall to the waves just beneath my window, I can look at them watch them all day if I want. This is where I am king. alone.

No invention of her, or her love as I suggested it be, to chase and nullify my appeal. In my speck appreciation of the dirty death of her beauty. and oceans of tears. real or imagined. This is my private kingdom.


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