She is in History

by ~sweet-sangria

Baron

     "I will heal you," he said in a room of mirrors.
     She laughed at this, at his confidence and everything else which were full of shit. But she took his head closer to her neck anyway. After all, he was her favorite.
Because of him she learned that promises were only to be made by gods. She learned about turning fetuses into blood, and that the heart did not take form of any kind, that being sober invited omens and prone to bruise mortality, and how sex-smelled bed sheets owned some kind of temper.
     "For you, everything, everything, anything for you."
     Words were no more than sirens passing by, carrying two seconds of blue and red riot flares.


    
Rose

     Another day...
     The rocks inside her head succumbed to gravity, pulling her further towards the fissures of the sofa bed, with knees that gave way. He now had given her some grass to burn and smoke when for eight years in the past she imagined him as a character who brought deep wine roses, sleek-stemmed and thornless. Back then her knees gave way, too, at the sight of him.
     Another day...
     Their mind wavelength. In darkness, no tether nor passion, this scene fitted nowhere in her life, then and now. She could not see anything that resembled him in memories; he was foreign on fogged car windows, in classes on school chairs, swimming fully-clothed in pool parties. It felt not like losing roots but liberty from unknown tears she labored as a child.
     Another day...
     It was understood that he was not meant to do much for her.      
     Another day...
     Clouding the room was the same song, over and over again, defeating the ardent plume of smoke, suffocating her more than two heartbreaks.



Purple

     Then, New Year's party
     Eyes secretly undressed her
     With sideways glances

     It was unfair to make his story a haiku, much less to define him. But his bashfulness left her with only a fleeting desire for him, a sudden burst of flickering light bulb before dying: unimpressive, forgettable. Indeed, he was one of the first to see her though not touch her like the rest but perhaps the latter was not entirely right, she had written about him and their fictional conversation in the rain with vampires as cigarettes.



Ash

     He had one of those teasing eyes she had seen before, somewhere, on another boy's face she coveted just a few months before that she did not get to kiss; they had the same walk, in fact, none of this realized by her until much later.
     She did not love him because of whom he reminded her of. The irises were a terrible darkness but sweet in cinnamon, other girls would think it was his smile that caused every cell to beam in hot pink, the teeth flashed a warning that they would bite the tender skin below your ear, but it was those brazen pair of caffeine moon in his eyes that awakened her.
     The first night spent in his bed she slept in a black and white damascened blanket and woke up at half past one after noon. Through the sand of dreamless sleep she saw herself on the mirror: naked limbs overwhelmed by a sea of monochrome, unfamiliar yet perfectly able to contain herself. Last night he told her he wanted to someday have her babies. At seventeen, what do you say to that?
     She did not know words like she does now, so as the thought of spawning his children turned into a heavy hour, she chewed her blank vowels wholly.
     A quarter to one on a summer day, the sun thick with pride of speaking a language nature did not know of, thus forcing the foliage to crackle with intense numbness; she finally sat up, "Why?"
     Fast forward a few months.
     Easter.
     They were six thousand miles away and he never really loved her.   
     From the beginning she was always the reason why.



Guillotine

     She misjudged herself when letting him lie close. Everything was regrettable. He touched her too much with rough and confused hand, moving in conceited strokes when in reality he knew nothing and affected no one. She wished she had never known him.



Dutch

     He called her by her full name and an eruption of electric jade-winged creatures fluttered outward into the luminosity of daybreak. His cheeks and nose were that of a marble statue, alarming her palms that had felt too much of other things. Undeserving, messy, different.
     They had become best friends, and she was fine with it as long as he kept saying her name.



Terror

     There are too many poems about him. She has put him amongst profound word structures of love--there is a whole fucking book that tells stories about him. When in truth, in real dialogues, she almost always cusses at his ruthless vein, wanting her only in bed and phone calls, never in his life.
     No depth here.



Shade

     He always wanted to save her. From burning herself into daydreams, from birthing reptiles, from hell.
     His brain-colored cords tangled in the shrine she made for him: in a temple of smoldering cigarette papers and brunette throats. He had murmuring friends inside drawers and on walls, and an inconsistent beat like
     one, two, four, seven,
     three, two, one,
     pause--
     then three, three, five, two, one
     stop.
     It was not that she did not love him but what he could not comprehend was that she would not be able to raze herself completely; it had to be someone else who led her to a blazing lunacy and collapse inwardly to herself.
     When he left she felt nothing, not from heartbreak but because she knew that it was never real in the first place.