Cripple and the midnight slink (I’m your private entertainment, a one man band)

by Charlotte E. Wilde

Happiness is almost certainly given too much credit, but never for its stealth. It comes and goes, a bending continuum of frozen blades, crooked and shimmering. Tundra, as far as the eye can see.

We’re all lost here. Monotony, sprouting futures on the windowsill like seeds that just wont take. A green thumb, an eskimo queen who greets you naked with a melting smile.

I catch myself picturing the things I want to do to your skin but tuck them back away. I put myself on pause, a Sunday afternoon spent in bed when we’re counting the hours by like last night’s bruises painted on my neck and thighs.

I collect your compliments in a jar on the mantle. When you’re gone I take them down and spread them around me, crosslegged on the floor. Two at a time I snap them up before the ball bounces twice, until I’ve captured them all. Keep on keeping on, practice makes perfect; I’ll train my fingers to fly.

We’re the performance of a lifetime, baby, two inimitable artists up-staged only by reality, in a Broadway-worthy comédie musicale.  Imagine us heaving, wet eyed and shaking, standing naked on this stage where we’ve just given our all. We’re brilliant, baby, breathless, and we know the reviews will be written with no regard, that commitment is  key. Acting is our allocated lie.

So here I am. I’m still waiting. Writing, I’m writing again with these crooked fingers. The backlogs to my memories kept on ice, I guess I’m back to biding [our] melting time.

Really, what it amounts to is, I’ve been looking hard for the words to tell you

I know I’m your default darling, but you’ve never been mine.

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