By Abigail Rogers-Berner
Her face may be lovely, but is the vision of her body that lingers inside me,
As I picture your body in hers—
In all of those lovely laughing girls who never knew you, who never know you.
I know you, how I know you.
But your face is not lovely to me anymore, any more than your spirit, which then, made mine less lovely.
And I loved you, how I loved you.
Your kindness was so sweet that I feel sickened as I look now upon it.
You are Baudelaire beautiful, blackened by a seared sugar coating.
You tempted me then, now, you repulse me.
But sometimes, I crave you.
I summon up memories of your mysterious, warm honeyed affection.
And sometimes, I need your attention.
I yearn for your gaze,
I want so desperately to be the face you stare at in your hall of mirrors, where you make peace every night in your velvet bed of deception,
Where you retreat to bed signing away all your cares to those other dancing spirits,
Singing as they depart,
Speaking nonsensical sensual whisperings in your weary ears,
While I weep golden tears.