Kubla Clam
2020-12-13

***

the ink is not yet dry on my face
or my brush as the wind whistles
and judges how well I have painted this place.

this city is suffocating this body
too short; I should have foreseen
before I passed through that portal so haughty.

"work? pandemic? president? what the shell are you
going on about? come on, let's go see
what clothes are new."

you're sitting on that bench.
you pretend not to see me, absorbed in your phone.
my twin hearts clench.

my love will go unrequited. you apologize
as you shake your head. you already have a boyfriend.
one heart breaks over a plate of fries

and the other expected nothing less.

sirens blare in the distance far off, signaling to hide,
and you take my arm, this dual-core machine I am
on all threads as you pull me inside.

there are storm clouds on the horizon,
what used to run in my veins
a million times the poison.

[the moon pulses red](https://web.archive.org/web/20200711151636/https://countess-radfem.tumblr.com/post/622747210454564864/tjagbo-closer-than-ever-2020),
the same color as the crown
that weighs heavy on my head.

the blood spills over the terraformed land,
and for a second, I think myself
brave enough to take your hand.

but it's just another mess that cleans itself up
in the end, no more harmful than
my stomach's churning ketchup.

the sky was already growing dark.
too early: this exit I cannot halt.

as slip away the last throes of this dream,
I reassure myself that you wait on the other side of the screen
for you are the soft sunrise I can't wait to see

***

CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander
