Bermuda

by christycelia

We’ve been walking in circles for months,
the injustice of words ruling the
beating of our steps.
If only the time of day
was right — then your eyes would look
straight ahead and not into peripheral abyss.
But it seems you only look at me when I look
away.

And now it is that the truth renders
vanished.
Not swept under the rug, hidden until someone
dies — we uncover dusty secrets lying dormant
under the Persian.
No, we have altered history, I can feel
the truth vanishing into fog.

My bed is the Bermuda triangle.
While we lie here, it comforts,
the distraction of the Atlantic winds
roll in and out your ears —
I am silent while I stare into
nothing spaces. You hold me like its
the only thing that ever
made sense, forgetting that if
there is one woman you cannot hold like that, it is me.
Liar. I want to draw out wisps
of truth from my eyes and let you
lick them till dry, but the taste
is bitter and my eyes remain
blank.

And your eyes hold feeling. I take it
from you like sweet candy. But
when I taste them I recoil —
the vastness expands upon contact.
Maybe you think you see that,
taste that,
in my eyes too. A dirty
mirror reflection of your beauty.

I am a virgin siren.
And I will make you vanish in Bermuda.

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