Sandstone, moonstone, soapstone
donβt flash like those eyes,
like motel signs at night.
Like dancing lightning strikes.
Fixed in place, youβre a patient stone soldier.
And with your finger on the trigger...
Honey, about time you took your gun out of its holster.
(Is love a kiss, a touch, a whim?
Or is it something more akin to hurricanes on deadly waters?
First the drizzle, then the storm.
I never rain, but oh baby, how I pour.)
Something invisible has snapped inside me.
A crueler feat catches, a hunger,
An inverse of passion, the dangerous hope of laughing, the guttural cries, the face gone blanch.
(It's so like the oceanβfor its mood to turn violent.
Slurred like the words of a drunken rampage.
Or perhaps lost, drowned in silence.)
The devil and God are raging within.
But rage is an art like everything else.
I do it, and I do it exceptionally well.
I do it because everything else already feels like hell.
I swear I am more wolf than woman anyway.
(You are that which the waves break against, and recede.)
Here I canβt help but wonder this version weβve been given to play out with Godβs rolling dice.
(You were the maid of honor to the death and rebirth of my life.
Iβd curse you if you left me so unceremoniously, without even a glance backwards.
(The others did. I deserved a better goodbye.)
(I think our souls are very old friends.)
Why are you so sweet on me, huh?
but Iβm a poison to the blood, a nightshade sung cacophony,
made of staples and berries and mud.
What elicits your loyalty?
What calls you back to meβyou, with your blushing halo so joyfully?
with the shore torn asunder,
would you still feel love?
Would you be able to find it?)
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