Through Your Teeth

I think it was the orchestrated
sunrise splashing warmth on your
eager skin that first shocked me,
how in control you simply were
and how unabashedly you wore the
gold necklace the rays formed,
choking you, but not choking you.

You spoke gentle caresses to the sky
like taming a wild thing, the same you did
the night before, to me, now her.
I’m probably better off forgetting that.
I’m probably better off forgetting you.

You said nice things through gritted teeth
and the pearly whites, heavenly white, chattered
as well on chilly nights, because only the
brightest of sun sustained you. Roses bloomed
on your cheeks and died on your neck
when you blessed the shade with misty
whispers that writhed in wreaths.
Even complaining, you were calculating, a waltz
of discontent.

With literature, doused in nuance, I can
almost forgive you the effort of
keeping so quiet in the evenings. Your gin & tonic
glance off in the distance, past me. You liked
the sunsets more, for their colour, which you
called divinity. I looked in the mirror,
held my breath, tried to hold the pink and red
you praised so well.
I’m probably better off.
I’m probably better off forgetting that.

Some things are best left behind, like the
snapping words my sisters shot through
me like arrows, docked in flames, and turgid
tragic stares my way from strangers. The mortal
stones could smell my missing you. Maybe you
orchestrated the aftermath, too. The shame.
The shell-shock.
The blast radius.
Maybe you punched in the code.

I’m probably better off not thinking that way.