My disappearing darling,
you sail with an anchorless boat, bolting from the dockyard as soon as
someone gets too close.
you are a magician with your departures.
I look for your footprints through the timeline of my life but I find
none except for at the door of my entryway,
one print on each side of the door, like you were always preparing to
leave.
you always run back to your little cage.
and I was mistaken thinking that I could pick the locks and make you
see that it is okay to retire the life at sea and return to the shore.
but I was forging keys out of unconditional love for locks that did not
even exist.
you live in a hollow metal box. you have never known a love like this,
a love that is not a paradox.
you have always been a performer, never just a person.
what a circus!
the tightrope is your podium, one act further and more venturesome:
you spin and spin and spin and spin until your toes break in your
pointy shoes.
but it is alright, the gore is covered with flashy clothes. you will be
brand new once you catch some rest. you cannot be sick; you are the
ringmaster of your own show and the heartbeat of your own well of
death.
and each day, a fresh coat of paint comes on.
you are a mimic at your very best.
every shiny quality that you have comes from another human being.
but you have one original trick.
you, my disappearing darling, feet flat on the barbed wiring,
marvellous show of utter submittance
while you carry a suitcase in your other hand.
at the break of dawn, here is my love with the paint scrubbed off
her traitorous skin. clowns are outdated, but becoming a
laughingstock, not so much.
town’s number one entertainer cries herself to sleep because she is
lonely even when she dreams.
always waking up screaming,
“I cannot be loved!”
but when someone tries, cautions them,
“dead dove: do not eat!”
you are an expert at reading faces.
one hint of resentment and you are sprinting for the carriages.
clutching the reins and dashing to the cages.
because leaving gives you a sense of safety, you sit in your jail and
that is your security.
the familiarization of each injury makes the blow hurt less. the
steps to first aid have become a muscle memory.
you, the knife jugular,
shaking hands with all your knives, so you are well acquainted with
every way a blade can puncture or cut when it drives through the
dermis.
there are no surprises in your circus.
it is a routine.
to wake up and please.
to exhibit qualities of a daring man and disguise the filth you
breed.
still walking on that tightrope.
“look at me,
I am shiny
and colorful, not distasteful
at all.
brighter than the skies.
I can bend backwards just to make you smile.
and even if I trip and tumble,
being seen is worth the pitfall.”
you are addicted to the concern, but you would not let anyone break
your fall.
because what would you be if not someone who so desperately
wants to be seen and liked but runs off as someone does?
you think you harbour dirt between your teeth, so as we speak I
know,
no amount of trying will get you to cease.
you will eventually leave.
because that is all you have ever known ever since you have known
anyone.
running when things get rough, and fleeing as soon as you feel
some kind of love.
I am
the disappearing darling,
top shelved, the shiniest doll at the market.
with a price tag too heavy to pay, I am never going home with
anybody.
(I keep forgetting that apart from the hefty payment, top shelves are
the dustiest,
no one ever really looks there)
Artwork by: Robert Henri
