Poor little rich girl has the ringing of screams in her ears. She risks danger just to feel close, ventures to and from knowing she’s never been safe- not really. Forged by the responsibility of thinking being too much of herself was wrong and that the terms of unconditional love required twisting some part of the spirit. As if modifying one’s behavior can always yield the desired result.
Nourished by salt streams and the manna of creativity, she grew up and changed her name to demarcate a before and after. Thinking this doesn’t have to follow me if I become like the ocean. Capable of wrath and retreat and rigid coastlines that say this is where I start, where you begin, and where we touch. An impulse to be her own body with a range of depth and to contain every texture from scaly to foam. She hid that spooky part of herself that yearns to be heard in a volcano under the sea’s sand.
Old habits don’t die, they haunt us like ghosts. They’re an aural effect we might hear over and over; ranging from silently to suddenly loudly. It cries her down to the bone because she pines to be filled with the feeling that was evaded. A fate that plays out like a curse- she falls for those who reaffirm that love is cruel.
A divine thin hellish lover echoes we must come together, enjoy my body. Men like her better when she’s still a bit of a dream- just out of reach. She accidentally showed a map of the magma under the floor and he didn’t like that; he murmured into the furnace of her ear that the fantasy of her is more enjoyable than the reality. Even the empathetic ones consistently exhaust her from being in that place men like to keep women- between sleep and awake.
You should be treated like a princess they say. Unknowing that from her viewpoint when a man that stares too long into his own reflection chooses to look at you- it feels royal. Being irresistible to a daffodil reaffirms there’s nothing inherently wrong with you, not really. She’s learned to let tomorrow fade all that remains but the sound of his face when he calls thy name.
Obsession or devotion- what to call this sacred act of pouring out love. We give what we want the most. Since she was looking at him look at himself she didn’t catch her own reflection. Had she looked down she would have seen her own hands were golden. That a star can’t fall for a mere man’s wish, that the ocean can’t be bothered to change itself for smooth sailing.