Britney

The train station gives me scratches and a soreness that rings through my body like a welcome visitor, long-lost and on my doorstep at midday.

My hair conforms to his body and to his touch—I become the girl I hated on the street and loved in my dreams, before I knew that being this way meant death couldn’t touch you, the words of strange men could touch you but not beneath the skin because you both would wipe it away with your tongues—

The genesis of him was in a dream from another world, a first life, unread Akashic records that we make a pact to rifle through when our souls are bathed in white light, floating purposefully between white walls, light with no beginning or end. Therefore strange that there could even be a genesis—perhaps I meant a reintroduction. Perhaps I don’t know what I mean because there are no words for it. It was never meant to be force-fed to these verbal lockets, these dressed up cages that I call my liberation.

The dream turns—

The home becomes lead that I gulp, the lighting dim, the boy cloudy.

I hide all my memories under the bed but they bulge and a relative finds them and she says nothing, but the boy disappears and I want to find him and be gone with him

There is no city without the lilacs and lavender roses that he feeds me as I freeze. Only green willow beds. Only a binge that cannot end. ♦