Honestly, Larkin

poetic_star's picture

The antique gold leaves swirl eerily
in the courtyard and I find you sitting
alone on a stone bench near where
the children like to play cup and ball.
But they can't see you, Larkin.
I'm the only one aware of your presence.
Decades of being sneered at
have made you cold to most humans.
So it was shocking when you decided
to open a window and let me catch
a glimpse of the frightened boy inside.

You are a walking tragedy in dapper clothing;
all the misunderstood pieces
of Prince Charming's dark past coming to life
in the flickering gaze of your shamrock eyes.
"Beaten to death," you said
in regards to the rips and amber smudges
on your shirt and autumn plaid scarf.
When I asked why, you looked out at
the frozen mulberries, then
brushed a hand along my
flushed cheekbones.
"Because I loved the wrong person."
And the words hung
in the air with the scent of
cigarettes and crushed roses.

Larkin, you haunt the village
of your youthful escapades
because there are plenty
of people to blame for
the night you were walking
back from a pub and was
attacked by three men
drunk with cruelty.
"I like boys, that's
not a reason to kill me, is it?
I never hurt anyone,"
you promised under
a metal and flower rain.

I believed you but when
those red-faced bastards
drove their fists into your flesh,
they left behind a festering rage,
and it swallowed your spirit whole.
Your once passionate emotions are
now out of control in your
new impenetrable form.
Like a violent storm whirling in
the teal Northern sea,
you wait for the opportunity to
bring down the hopes of others.

And your words are twisted
ramblings of the Wilde sort
because you're angry at yourself
for missing him so much.
If your lover had accepted your
invitation all those years ago,
you would have gone
home with him where
it was safe so maybe
it's his fault too..

Lips tasting of butterscotch,
you kiss me like you want
a second chance to be good
but your fingertips are fiery
on the spot where my
heart meets bone.
Larkin, you left remnants of
your darkness on the floor;
ruby and ink-stained bits
from your wings as
the magpie sings,
and I hide them
under my bed because
your morphine
affection will be
the death of me
one of these days and
when we're both gone,
the world must know
that bigotry kills.

Honestly, Larkin,
you used to be
someone who wore
vintage Homburgs
like a back alley cat
going to underground clubs.
Now, even though
you are immune to
winter's firm grasp,
you carry on with
the same old getup,
thinking that at least
in these strange
incubus dreams,
you can reinvent
yourself with crazy
touching and risky declarations,
seducing and destroying all who
have wronged or doubted you.

In many ways, you're still a kid,
searching for an
unconditional home.
But you can't fool me, Larkin,
because we share
the same cliffhanger secret.


Bosemaster42's picture


Powerful. Interesting story.

poetic_star's picture


it's sort of fantasy :P

Bosemaster42's picture

Made up,

Or Real?

poetic_star's picture

made up, of course :P

made up, of course :P

MaddieJoy's picture

this one is one of my favorites

it felt a little surreal

The ducks will get you!

poetic_star's picture

aww you're sweet! thanks,

aww you're sweet! thanks, honey.