Two hundred pounds of peacock feathers right before you, and you said it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. You said it looked just like me.
I thought to myself, “I’d rather be a seventy pound albino.”
You once told me a story about a flume in my brain and I wondered why building a dam was a task that these two hands could not bear alone. I told myself I’d find the easy way around, drill a hole right into my temple.
Two and a half pots of coffee and thirteen cigarettes a day, I’m sure I don’t have any blue blood left by now. There’s nothing sweet about it, but you still tell me my lips taste like sugar, and if you ate me alive, you wouldn’t taste anything but too much honey in your tea. And you said, “It’ll make me feel gooooood, I’ve got a sore throat.”
You whisper to me for hours every night. I’m perfect. Perfect.
Perfect.
Fucking nude.
You trace my body for awhile with a scratchy fingertip as I blame things on winter, and I try to make you understand what it’s like living eight years in Antarctica.
“Think about the sun shining on all of the plumes not yet fallen out of a peacock I’m too afraid to touch.”
“I’ve been without warmth since Texas day one. I’d rather just be the sun.”
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