Chains and Needles, All on Bare Arms
We were dreamers.
The kind of pavement artist you’d see everyday,
but could never remember.
Our names were fake, our bruises real.
I’m not sure anymore if I really ever was a brunette,
or if she was ever blonde.
Our skin was probably never this pale, or our veins this blue.
My lips never used to be so swollen.
Hers never used to be so red.
Our clothes, they were never so flashy, so eye-catching.
They made the men in the room turn feral,
as the sequins kept the beat on our hips.
My smile, I’m not sure if it used to be relaxed.
Maybe my laugh was always that shrill, or hers always that rough.
But my eyes, the ones rimmed with charcoal, still burn.
They’ve always been that blue.
Now, they’re surrounded by painted eyelashes,
and powder so heavy it’s become ink.
But I always had confidence that nothing
would put the flame behind my eyes out.
The rest of me can die, but not my eyes.
My body might have kept their attention,
but my stare could convince them to help me
pay my bills with a one-night contribution.
Nothing would ever extinguish the life I kept behind my irises.
But there was a cold night, and my feet were sore.
It was snowing.
Was it Christmas?
Surely the New Year had already passed.
But he was there, a shadow I had to walk by.
The smoke from his cigarette caught my mind’s interest,
and I spared him a glance.
His eyes, they glowed too,
through the gray haze and the white snow, he saw me.
Nobody ever saw me, not when I didn’t want them to.
He enticed me with a lit stick, and I took it.
I exhaled, my breath blowing across his face.
He pinched his cigarette between his lips, and stared.
And then, he pulled me, down the sidewalks,
to a dingy apartment, one painted the color of cigar stains.
But the bed was soft, and so was he, lying right beside me.
He wouldn’t touch me, except with his eyes.
I wasn’t sure now, whether I was really acting.
Was I welcoming him to use me?
Or was I begging him to heal me?
Very slowly, as if afraid I might spook and run,
He took my wrists in his hands.
We sat there for a long time, neither of us moving.
Our legs crossed, our knees barely touching,
But our eyes never wavering.
The kind of pavement artist you’d see everyday,
but could never remember.
Our names were fake, our bruises real.
I’m not sure anymore if I really ever was a brunette,
or if she was ever blonde.
Our skin was probably never this pale, or our veins this blue.
My lips never used to be so swollen.
Hers never used to be so red.
Our clothes, they were never so flashy, so eye-catching.
They made the men in the room turn feral,
as the sequins kept the beat on our hips.
My smile, I’m not sure if it used to be relaxed.
Maybe my laugh was always that shrill, or hers always that rough.
But my eyes, the ones rimmed with charcoal, still burn.
They’ve always been that blue.
Now, they’re surrounded by painted eyelashes,
and powder so heavy it’s become ink.
But I always had confidence that nothing
would put the flame behind my eyes out.
The rest of me can die, but not my eyes.
My body might have kept their attention,
but my stare could convince them to help me
pay my bills with a one-night contribution.
Nothing would ever extinguish the life I kept behind my irises.
But there was a cold night, and my feet were sore.
It was snowing.
Was it Christmas?
Surely the New Year had already passed.
But he was there, a shadow I had to walk by.
The smoke from his cigarette caught my mind’s interest,
and I spared him a glance.
His eyes, they glowed too,
through the gray haze and the white snow, he saw me.
Nobody ever saw me, not when I didn’t want them to.
He enticed me with a lit stick, and I took it.
I exhaled, my breath blowing across his face.
He pinched his cigarette between his lips, and stared.
And then, he pulled me, down the sidewalks,
to a dingy apartment, one painted the color of cigar stains.
But the bed was soft, and so was he, lying right beside me.
He wouldn’t touch me, except with his eyes.
I wasn’t sure now, whether I was really acting.
Was I welcoming him to use me?
Or was I begging him to heal me?
Very slowly, as if afraid I might spook and run,
He took my wrists in his hands.
We sat there for a long time, neither of us moving.
Our legs crossed, our knees barely touching,
But our eyes never wavering.