Feeing the Vain
I will rule you, but nice try.
I give plenty away to them.
I'll look him over, and I'll chat books with him.
I sit there, waiting like a china vase on a shelf. Pick me up, turn me around. See how I'd make a good vessel for you.
I'll chuckle at your jokes. Some actually funny, others I'll give a courtesy laugh to make you feel special.
I'll drop my chin low, lower, lowest and slowly raise my eyes up high, higher, highest a la Bacall.
Don't you know I watched all the old movies, and I know how bedroom eyes work?
I play off tension, and I'll push and pull like a Rothko painting.
You'll leave the door open, and I'll sway in a dress in the kitchen. I'll polish a plate in my bare feet, ankles out, and sing a song.
I'll feel you every second watching me.
The wind will blow through the door, and you'll look at me with those "what might be" glances. I like them. They make me feel powerful.
You can be a big strong man, or I can mother you. It doesn't really matter to me.
I remember the time when I was younger, and I visited his parent's house.
He picked me up and pushed me into a wall, and we had the best sex ever, and his sister came over, interrupting.
I worried she'd think I was a slut, but it was so good, I didn't worry too much.
I thought one time he might kill me. He put me in his car with his gun, and wouldn't tell me where we were going but I didn't really care at that time. I just wondered if I'd end up like some statistic, and I was sad I'd die in some backwoods flatland county I hated. I wondered if I'd beg for my life or just accept it.
I was the most reckless with him.
I still am reckless.
When men comment on my beauty, I collect it like pearls on my necklace.
When he walks in and says, "Hello, gorgeous," I feel every bit of me swell with pride.
I bloom, and I twist and turn so he can admire. I do like being admired.
They fed me.
I tasted their admiration.
I spit out the bones of they're leftover needing.
I threw the dishes in the sink leaving them for someone else to clean.
They fed me.
But no one knows about him because I don't write much about him, though I could.
I'm true to him.
You can see it when he enters the room, the way I immediately cock my head and smile.
He always mentioned that when we were dating, that cocked head.
It's my tell.
I am true to him because I have seen him cement gray and proposing to me before we were near being ready.
I have sat in the floor of the ER, and I've prayed for him when I had never even prayed for myself.
I begged God for him.
I know him better than anyone.
All these useless things throughout the day about being pet and told I'm pretty pale in comparison to his love.
I want to crawl through his scar from heart surgery, inside, and never come out.
I want him to carry me around.
We have the sex that I can't talk about out of respect for him, but man, would I.
He is the one who has left me floating beneath the stars on a mountain side outside of a yurt, turning and turning and turning, with a finger mounted inside, guiding me like a globe. Spinning and spinning in a hot tub.
Sliding naked down waterslides and floating under waterfalls, wound together in bliss.
You all think you're something, and you might be. But he, he is everything.