the hanging

she wears her insecurity like a body con dress, her jealousy measured by the height of her heels. both are teal, and therefore fool others into believing they are blue–the color of calm waters–in the dimly lit rooms she is known to frequent. her charisma infects the air, so her company is at ease. they share with her their thoughts, once guarded by inhibition, unaware that she is braiding those very secrets into a rope. their trust in her is the weapon she carries concealed beneath her hemline, ready to strike if ever they deign to stand taller than she.

they are too enchanted by her warmth to notice the singe as each of her words yanks the rope tighter upon their necks. little does she realize, the hem of her dress, tailored by the threads of her self loathing, shortens with each new coil in her rope. once hypnotized by her feigned selflessness, i now stand back and watch her self destruction unravel, knowing she is the seamstress of her undoing.



my resignation to a future of solitude had become my armor. the metal, my skin. no shot could wound me, but no caress could comfort me, either. it was that touch, its gentle and loving current, for which i longed. silently. one was impossible without first surviving the other. you arrived bearing the chinks in your breastplate, yet the presumptions and pretenses were absent from your accoutrements. you relaxed your battle stance, and allowed me to peel off your armor. at the sound of the chain mail meeting the ground by our feet, my metallic skin was replaced by bare flesh. i knew i’d feel the comfort and security of your fingertips before they grazed my cheeks. i could abandon my fortress, and with you, come home.