antiseptic love songs

poem collaborations by Poetic Star [sharon] and Aya Scribbles [tiara]
baby, your arsenic lips still taste
like winter never ended and
you know I'd kill myself
for more
♥

previous entries

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dearest,

i watched a frostbitten moon from the perspective of my lunette window. murmurs of moccasin wind smuggled a hailstorm of your tears as the graveyard of my crucified sky splattered sawdust rain resembling a tumbleweed paroxysm of a pollock painting while reflecting a silhouette of your poinsettia smile from the cracks in the ceiling.

and the schizophrenic cacophony of a tinsel nightingale perched above my mistletoe heart shrieked your name. fragile wings fluttered like twinkle lights dying. our souls damned, mislead the direction of heaven.

i killed the melody inside me. burned the song birthed by my kashmiri lips. cinnamon apothecary incense perfumed my room back home every time we listened to vinyl records.

there are girls here just like me, the same brokenness reflected in our eyes where sandalwood roses used to bloom on midsummer nights, illuminated by lemon citronella stars.

and even if i pillage the halls of this asylum for a fragment of our cherished moments together, i still couldn’t unearth the ghost of your antebellum kiss because you were like a seraph to me. but, now you are lost-- trapped inside my mind for eternity within a bottle of memories.

sincerely, t.f

-'-,'-,'-,'-,'-,'-,'-,'-

darling,

the sea here is a dreadful shade of charcoal, unlike the turquoise and pearl ocean that used to hit the shores of your father’s home. we looked for oysters all day, remember, when the tides were low and the breeze whipped our hair around, untying our ribbons with her snowbound fingers? you looked so lovely and free, running in your bare feet, sunlight playing tricks with the green in your eyes. i will never forget that image. darling, it makes these icy nights without you bearable.

but i hope you’re alright. i’m scared to death that this is all false hope, that my letter will never reach you through the bars of that ladylike asylum. it’s so hypocritical that they’ve locked you up just for being you. darling, my anger causes screams to rip out of my throat whenever i miss you too much my hands grab teacups and china, smashing all that jewelry into the wall of my aunt’s house, a new hiding place they’ve found for a disgrace like me to seek refuge while my lover is tortured psychologically and in ways that i am too ashamed to imagine.

oh darling, please forgive me. all i wanted was to love another girl. i didn’t think about the consequences.

though i’m grateful that you were the one who gave me a chance-- to grab at your childish wishing star and wear it on a sterling chain around my neck, to accompany you on walks through the gardens and parks in town and get to know you, not as the daughter of a businessman, an heiress with more money than i could ever have, but as a person who loves bird-watching with binoculars in hand and peppermint ice cream at the fair, canaries and irish songs played on the piano in front of the fireplace.

darling, if i could take back what your family did to you and put me in your place, i would. you don’t deserve to be there because you’re not sick or insane. and if they loved you, truly, then they wouldn’t care that you’re attracted to females; ladies in winterblue gowns with pearl gloves and pieces of poetry hidden in their sleeves, girls who want something more than marriage, who lie awake, listening to radio broadcasts and reading newspapers about factory strikes and suffragate movements over cups of café au lait. that’s what you want; a real woman, a dreamer, with flaws, with mistakes, making her beautiful in the mirror and not someone who’s okay with being a trophy-- a misplaced photo on a mantle.

for awhile i thought i could be that, i could be anything you created in your wicked imagination. for awhile, darling, i thought we could buy a cottage somewhere in the english countryside and nobody would have to know the truth about us. we could make up some story for why we lived together. you could be my sister. people always did say we looked alike-- our hair similar shades of autumn blond. only our eyes were different; yours like sea glass and celtic fairy hills, mine like firewood, crushed acorns and turkish silk-- warm like my personality. now all i feel is anger , nothing tender.

darling, please let me know that you’re alright and that they haven’t stolen the last thing we have in common; a steam punk heart.

yours always, s.d