Roses
In a dream I had once a rose sat on my lap. The petals were wilted and the stems lay bare against my hands, thorns throbbing and leaves sunk into my fingertips. I danced around the room, though only with my eyes. Sunlight blossomed in soft peach tones through the windowsill. I looked through the glass, hoping to maintain eye contact with the rising sun. She hid her face from me, a cloud blocking my view. I think about her too often. The days turn by slowly in this dream, like cold honey. Golden fire waltzes through the shadows on my wall like an intense rain, a light turns on. In this room, I am nothing. I am a cool sweet glass of water, nothing more than. I am content on a hard pressed bench, holding a rose. It is my sixteenth birthday. I am youthful and I glow, though for separate reasons. When I am thirsty I drink. When I am hungry I eat. I sit with a rose on my lap. The sky above me is surely on fire, I know for certain though I cannot see it. The earth is hungry though she does not eat, I hear her rumble beyond window paine and shaking walls. The sky is pearly, the white walls glint in the sun, each slice of wood waving back at the stars above us. I am wearing a dress of soft pink satin. If I could stand; I would twirl; though I only dream of it. A dream within a dream. I wonder what loneliness feels like. I ponder as I toss almond slivers at the foot of the bed that sits perched in the corner, under a shelf with a snow globe with a broken glass shell. The fairy inside of it smiles. A guitar strums softly out of the corner of my mind. I worry so often I forget to listen. My skin is softer than clouds, a face as smooth as a cold breeze. I wear a jacket but it fits me funny, the sleeves are too long and the buttons are too large. I slide the jacket off and it hits the floor and vanishes. I try to speak and the words appear in gold above my head. The clock is the very time I want it to be each time I look. I hold marbles in my hand; when I blink; they are diamonds. I blink again. My hands are empty. There is a mirror in my room I do not go near. She watches me, a cat's eye, she offers me a gift. A magic map or the greatest secret, she whispers to me, holding out a birthday candle, holding a handful of them. Wish for a prince, she urges me, watching with a side eye glance. I close my eyes, blow air from my lips, try to think of anything else to wish for. I fail. The candle sparks sputter to the floor. I reach for them before I remember where I am, or rather who. But I do, I do dream of a prince in this dream. He approaches my tower but is never quite able to tear me from it. Willing perhaps or maybe he likes the security of my life in this cage. I ask him to give me space and he obliges me, what a gentleman. I toss him away regardless. The sun is full again, I shield my eyes as she casts a shadow over the gentle thoughts walking through the hallways in my head. I am free of anything and everything, I am the tree at the edge of the forest or the bird craning its neck as it soars further than my eyes care to wander. I am nothing and everything and no one holds me accountable for a damn thing and I am so pretty, everyone tells me so. I part my hair to the side of my face, pin them back with my mother’s clips. The evening wears me like thin socks and I wake in a cold sweat. My fingers bleed from clutching the rose in my lap, I am still in a dream. My head spins along with the chandelier above me, I wish harder than any wish before to have a chance to dance with her. My prince appears and his words are ever as hollow as before. I dismiss him with a wave as if he is nothing because he is(nothing). Enraged, he descends me, and I waste my own time once again, watching the clouds upturn and travel above me. The sun sets once more, I try to catch a taste. Cherry glossed and overeasy, the trees settle in for a night’s rest. Am I still sleeping? It appears to be so. I yawn metaphorically, I feel wide awake. My hair is long and my words are cheeky but endearing, anything a person might like to enjoy for a time. I feel crafted, a work of art or clay or upheaval, drafted into a human body. I grow weary once and finally. The prince appears with armfuls of flowers. I don’t know how to tell him, I glance down sheepishly, hold forward the rose in my lap.
It’s just me, I force from my mouth,.
It’s all I’ve ever needed; this entire time.
