The Hamadryad

There’s a flowering tree that my Granddad named for me. He showed me early Friday and my aunt cut me a bloom. The flower had no smell – not of your neck, nor of your room. It grows in the sand on the strange side of this land – I smoked a cigarette and felt its bark beneath my hand and watched the dark descend like blankets over sleeping chimney tops. Not once in that ten minutes did my feverish brain stop to think of girls who used to want me, at least until I fucked things up. My tree and I just waited – each of us lonely enough to help accomodate our namesakes or girls whose hearts I break and not judge if we saw a lie delivered, emotion faked.

I would rather my feet would grow into roots, rather my hair would curl into loose approximations of flowers for nice girls to cut, rather I only knew sunlight not love and could be understood with the aide of a guide, rather not suffer the depth of the night and not be bored or lonely all the time.

~ by perfectionatrix on March 19, 2011.

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