Scoliosis and shipwreck
After a bit of self-diagnosis, I concluded that I may have scoliosis. It isn’t because one side of my waist is curvier than the other, nor because I gasp for air each time someone utters your name. But because when your hair flutters against the midday sun, like a mystique feathery silhouette, my spine bends like it should when people fall in love.
It is an ill-manner to objectify men. So I’ll rephrase and call you an embodiment of my desires. I hope the laws will cut me some slacks. But when your voice sounds like there’s velvet wrapped around your lunges, can you really blame me for being so desperate?
They tell me women should dream of white horses and jeweled tiara, for they deserve a throne. But I want you to come to me covered in ink and studs. Come to me with heavens crushed beneath your feet and hellfire as your crown. If you’d like, together we can sing blasphemous songs. For when you came into my life, I called out to an empty space and called it my religion.
I despise a throne, and so they despise me. But what they don’t know is that we’ve slipped into a new solitary alter. We’re halfway through living and halfway through death.
I’ve once written you poems that felt like shipwreck between your ribs. So baby here’s one that will teach you to read infinity.