Pretty Little Disease

Snow is coming I can feel it in my bones. I can hear it in the silence which deafens my mind to the madness of the cars rushing over the highway below. There is nature and there is nurture and there is everything in between which no one seems troubled by but I can’t stop obsessing over because what are we but secret love letters written in hot blood waiting to be torn apart, piece by piece sewn back together. Tear stained. Ruined. Burned. There’s the chewing of my nails when I’m nervous and my sucking on your rough thick fingers when I’m fidgeting beneath you and you want me to keep still. The world is a death star spiraling out into an ever expanding abyss but the way you soothe my nerves with a single touch is a drug like none other so I try very earnestly not to fuck things up as I am often want to do when my affection turns rabid or morbid or stormy or any of the above, possibly all at once. I think of all the women I am on any given day at any given time, all the pretty angels in me, all the hellish demons. I line my eyes in charcoal while somewhere out there across the buzzing neon chaos of the city a busty girl gives her man a topless lap dance before scrolling through his cell phone for the thousandth time. So little connection, so much anxiety. What do other people think about when the sky turns that heavenly shade of somber gray and ripples with the dark threat of a violent driving rain. The taste of the ache in your eyes when I say something I don’t mean, when you try to call me home but I’m so far gone the only thing that keeps me from the danger of myself are the words which choke me until I can be alone to tear them from my throbbing skull. All you ever wanted was to wreck me and save me and fill me good and proper. And yet it’s all I can do to keep my head from spinning long enough to get at the sick sweet fever that is poetry. To satisfy the words so I can finally spit them out of me. The snow is coming, I can feel it in my gums. I take a drink and say a prayer for it to bury me like the distant rolling graveyard hills. Cover my body in pristine white and finally wash my dirty heart clean.

7 Replies to “Pretty Little Disease”

  1. Allison, I love your mastery of words. You often manage to draw me in with delicious and relatable description. I appreciate your style and have to admit I struggle with it, as my inflamed brain needs breaks and paragraphs to help me read. If I fail to let you know how much I appreciate you, it is because I’m having a bad day.

    Liked by 1 person

      1. Hah. True! I was once told that the problem with sugarcoating is that no matter how much you sugarcoat a pile of manure it will still taste like a manure… 😉 Sadly, that doesn’t mean I always remember this… 😩

        Liked by 1 person

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