QueenofDawn

Yes, you can hold my hand,
but only if you understand that this isn’t just another step in your game,
aiming to reach something more,
because holding my hand doesn’t oblige me to give you anything else.
If you take my hand,

Your mind weaves you a blanket of lies,
whispers the secrets you expected to hear.
Scenes painted on your envious eyes,
illustrations of the story you’ve written for yourself,
brushstrokes of a crumbled imagination.

If they won’t love her, they will revere her.
If they won’t revere her, they will fear her.
Oil slick blood splatters rainbows across her chest,
an empty cavity, a metal cage.
You strain to hear a heartbeat rattling inside,

I don’t want these week old envelopes,
pencil smudged writing too cramped to fit onto the page.
More traded journal entry than conversation,
too distant to be natural,
separated by miles of lonely road.
I want your voice,

Somewhere, there is a book. It is old and well worn. Its pages are dog-eared, and there are little threads unraveling from its soft gray cover. It is not especially long, and it is not especially short, but it has a weight to it.

I am no longer in control of my body. My legs, strong and muscled, are not mine. My hands have memorized every action they must take, and no longer need me to guide them. My blood, my bones, they belong to someone else, and I watch from above.