dicere quae puduit, scribere jussit amor

cardigan. 08/22/21

tw: mild sexual innuendo, brief mention of blood

——— :sunny: ———

”we were fighting in everything we weren’t saying, in the intensity of our embrace, in the fact that eventually, we’d have to loosen our grip.”

-the bookshop of yesterdays; amy meyerson

——— :sunny: ———

i do not know you. i have seen you only a handful of times, flashes of purple and gold on your pedestal, curious glances striking each other midway. you look like someone who keeps birds in cages and takes lonely girls to bed at night, someone who is all sharp edges, a twisted twin of the emperor himself.

but i know there is more to you than i see, so that is how i paint you with my words: ‘the cruel downward tilt of your lip is weighed down by this public life you lead, devoid of friends and secrets, yet still ired from every angle. they all think you are the artwork, the museum attraction to ponder and prod, but you are the artist with your hidden sketchbooks and the slight bow of your head. i have caught only glimpses of you imperfect, but i think that is the way i like you most. there, you are real and human, no longer confined to being a statue of sculpted marble. only when you think you are alone, do you scribble your notes, paint your pictures, and in this version of you i find myself. we are not so different, are we?’

you may never see this version of you i have written up in my mind, spent days dreaming of, spent nights tracing on the ceiling, but i cannot help the hope, bright as coals, in my chest. would you ever want to know my name, to learn what more there is behind it? i do not know if names even mean anything to you at all, for everyone already knows yours. you have everything men wish for, but i can see in your eyes that you are missing something, for you do not have the luxury of being yourself, of truly being known for more than a name you did not choose.

:sunny:

i am no girl with slim ankles, decorated with good trim and worshiping the crown at your brow, but you took me anyway. i am still falling at your feet, but that has never been because you are a prince, it will never be for riches. it is a begging to know you, a pleading to see you how the rest of the world never can. you are not prince or heir or even artist, not your name or your people, just as you are not mine or theirs. you are yours. spun through the world’s vicious loom, yes, but still you and i love you for it.

many times now have you called me your sun, traced its rays upon my shadowed back, wondered how my name could be so fitting on your tongue. but how can you not see your own light? i see how you reach for darkness as if you think that is all you deserve, but i always catch you and touch my fingers to your lips, flickering gold even in the dark: “i know you shy from being sunlight when the world revolves around you. i know that is never what you wanted, and that the dark sounds so much easier. but you are a different kind of sun, you do not burn to touch, you are warm and gentle still, and when i say ‘my sun’, i mean they have not managed to take that from you.”

when we are a tangle of limbs in the night, we both have trouble letting go. even as the sun (his very own poet) stretches up over the horizon and we know they will find us if i stay, we cling to each other, folded up like leftover crescents of the fading moon (diana, please stay a little longer for us now). we don’t talk much in the morning, never say goodbye or greet the day, just slowly untangle like the petals outside your window. i think it makes the leaving less painful, the final glance bearable, because your eyes are still bare and i can believe that you will be like this on your throne, just as i know you. i do not have to hear the chill in your voice as you prepare yourself for the day to come. i know i am being selfish, but i like to think it makes it all a little easier for the both of us.

we pretend we live in a different world entirely, without acknowledging the one we live in when the sun burns the roofs above our heads. but there is only so much pretending we can do when every eye pries for weakness and every hand pulls you further out of my reach.

come back to me tonight, let me unravel you, let me wash the fingerprints off your cheeks, the blood from beneath your nails, and remind you who you are again. let us that there are still parts of life that are not an act.