A Cast of Characters

The sun burnt man, walking in with a swagger, so certain of his “belonging”;
The beautiful woman denying the world of her smile for fear of exposing her jagged teeth;
The middle-aged balding man refusing to believe that his best years are behind him, with his “cool” bag and designer jeans;
The silent observer as dark as the night, listening, watching, analyzing;
The love triangle trio, he loves her, she loves him, and he inevitably loves himself far too much to ever love another;
The Russian, Bulgarian, Armenian, this man of accents, bartering his life over the phone;
The quirky girl with a 1920s white, chiffon dress, jovial with a black suitcase packed… just in case;
The bohemian, reading a poetry book, the words forming images in her mind as she chews on her dread-locked hair;
The manly Asian man with a pink band-aid on his index finger, jabbing at his computer;
The pot-bellied, white t-shirt wearing worker, exasperated as perspiration trickles down his forehead, into your coffee cup;

And you, sitting in front of me, unaware or perhaps not ever caring enough to notice, me.

Burn. Burning. Burnt.

Searching for the North Star,
my nocturnal compass,
scouring the earth for the
underground railroad leading
me to me,
only to be just as lost as before,
my sole souvenir from this
fruitless journey—
eyes blinded by lunar rays.
Lost. Searching for a map that
would lead me back to me,
instead I get lost in you,
and as I canvassed your
Valleys of Abuse, returning
with lacerations marking my body
like third-degree burns,
as would an incorrigible pyromaniac,
undeterred by your incendiary words
covering my ashen skin like
tattoos indelibly claiming me,
and despite your strong hand
clasping my neck, choking me,
objectifying me (success!),
I return, over and over and over
again. Burn. Burning. Burnt.

Nearly

She turns on the light, the hum of the electric particles reverberating in her eardrums. The stark light hits her pale skin as she turns the faucet’s knob, water running like the fragments of him down her leg. She places her trembling hands under the water and splashes it onto her cheekbones, yearning for rejuvenation and possibly salvation. Then, her hands canvass the rest of her body, washing him and that which they will never be off of her bruised limbs, her body war-torn soil and he the clear victor.

Thoughts stream through her mind, each tinged with guilt and regret, having yet again allowed herself to be conquered by him, someone whose sole aim is to ravage, to destruct, to incinerate all that is whole in her as a fire rages through a pillaged city.

She returns to his bed, him lying there satisfied, his appetite satiated, he the lion and she the devoured prey, solely a naked carcass remaining of her. But she paints on an amiable smile, continuing this charade, playing the designated role so well it’s nearly believable. Nearly.