You kissed his feet and idealised their scent.
You loved the man centre stage and it did not
Matter what he did once he left the altar
And dove back into himself, and yet,
He did not shed the public skin
In front of a selected few,
Selected by him.
You pulled his flesh, licked his skin,
Enamoured with the voice that he would lose,
With the passion that you lack in your lives,
The lies that he knows how to keep alive.
The thread that runs through all of your lives
And his, but you think that he sells you the truth.
You believe it fully.
You feel like you have to.
The dangerous absolute.
His skin, sagging and close to lifelessness,
A magnet to your lips,
You want a piece of him,
You always fell so deeply in love with
What you don’t know at all.
That’s your comfort zone.
Lying in bed with a stranger
Who whispers in your ear
That you’re the only one who knows him
Well.
And he abandons your body and you feel
Satisfied, honoured that he was part of your flesh.
His mouth is a chameleon of taste,
Transgressive and untraceable.
You hold on to him because you think
That your world would collapse without
His presence in it.
You just want to see him shine,
You don’t want to know,
All the twisted little things that amounted
To a great disaster,
The things that he did to those
You chose to be blind towards.
Those whose voices he stole to erect his own
And it all fell apart and you hold his hand still,
Preaching love, love, love, humanness, pointing your
Fingers at those whose lives he tried to destroy.
Croque-Melpomene 