voodoo angels

poetic_star's picture

*inspired by this quote: "Love exists in powder. Love exists in pills. We are all addicts."- Pete Wentz, Gray

I used to fall asleep to the crunching
sound of riots in the alleys
outside my window
when I was a child.
But boy, you never had that luxury.
While I was always
searching for secret passageways
and trap doors under floorboards
and between sweaty cobblestones,
you never even tried to touch
the delicate shadows up in
the attic back home.

But there's something about
your perfectly tailored self
that still gets under my skin,
making me want to find all
the dirty little secrets
you mumble in sleep
as ghosts try to listen to
your dreams of Georgia;
steel magnolias and
boys with flirty accents,
begging for cigarettes
under trees dripping
with moss and voodoo.

I'm a specter with
a chain necklace
and low-cut jeans.
I play on splintered
guitar strings and
wipe glittery tears
from my cheeks
with a makeup brush
the exact tint as
your firefly lashes.

Daylight simmers in your body,
turning your flesh pale;
the color of milk daisies,
and the March sky dips
a paintbrush in your irises,
filling them with fantastic blue ink.

You're the rip in a tapestry,
the smudge on a painting.
But I don't care.
That's what I love about you;
how you're not
at all what everyone expects.
Bright and mild on the outside,
like autumn leaves and garnet stones;
on the inside, you're a phoenix's soul,
red and blistering,
too hot for any virgin to ignore.

And I know you pretend
not to be aware of
your own appeal;
the things that make
ordinary boys tremble
as they try to mumble
words that will bind you
to them for the night.
I know you're not naive
and that makes me try
harder than I ever have before,
to get ahead of the line and
see your Virgo smile stretch
wide like a beach at dusk.

Boy, it's not cruelty.
It's not even arrogance.
Really, it's just curiosity.
You're a beautiful enigma;
the son of daylight angels.
And I want to see if I can
make you blush real pretty.

Is it wrong?
You say no
and slip your hand in mine,
our different tones mixing
like apricot and cinnamon.
It's disturbs
all those narrowed eyes,
watching us
under unmarked steeples.

But it's great, isn't it?
How we're so unique?
I've never met anyone so sincere.
It's adorable.
It's challenging,
making me want to fold my arms
around your muscular form.
Even knowing you're strong
enough to face this alone,
I can't help wanting you
to need me in the same
way I find myself
addicted to your touch.

Boy, you want things
that your parents;
the plain paper stars,
never gave you.
And believe me,
I understand perfectly.
Love sucks words and
moonbeams out of us.
It drains our bodies of
adjectives and
leaves our minds dark
and empty like
those abandoned hospitals.
Our hearts become distorted
and fragile like the creamy
insides of apples.

And maybe I can never
make you stay here,
turn you into my Dorian Gray;
sitting on a sofa,
telling me stories of your nannies
and adventures, playing hooky.
But for now, darling,
let me drink in this fantasy.

Let me run my hands through
your Baltic black strands,
feeling them slide through
my fingers like haunted water
and hold your head on my knee
as your eyes gaze up at the ceiling,
counting the cracks where
silvery constellations peek in and
whisper good morning.

It's not about rebellion, darling;
not even identity.
It's about wanting someone
near who won't
run away so easily.

So let me draw symbols
all over your stomach
as it glistens in candlelight
like sand dollars.
Let me protect you like a pirate,
guarding his treasure
with a knife and loose morals,
because I want you
to be that precious
thing I come home to
every stolen evening.

Boy, I can be your sentinel,
just as long as I'm not
the only one drowning
in a whirlpool of
Muscadine wine
and hard candy.