February Contrapasso

by Lianna Halko

I want to hurt you
and silently sip the odd familiar sticky tar that spills
because I love you
and it’s been said that
pain is beauty.
Happiness, Hunger, and Boredom.
I haven’t learned a thing
from this gloss paper except how to sneer
and fake it—
and it is a tragedy.
It boils down to this:
Red wine stains and chocolate weekday nights
Candlelit flickering shadows, the smell of singed wicks, and snooze buttons—
tea sometimes.
Confusion and excitement
brushed with the bittersweet caress of
nostalgia and internet radio
guided by gentle soothing female voices.
Longing and unfulfilled waves of desire and determination that
shoot through your temples
and cravings of waffle cones.
The smell of fresh pine needles accompanied by the blinding glares
of the suns rays and their
comforting fucks.
I am ordinary.
A past situation dweller with
swollen inflamed eyelids and shaky wrists.
Repetition, monotony, and love for the elderly.
The punishment fits the crime.
Whiskey and sober evenings with chills and sweat.
Catharsis as a metaphysical tainted capsule
to swallow whole and digest.
I am pure.
Fond memories of chopsticks and tough aggressive tongues
detestation, too.
Linger over me.
Linger over me
just like beautiful downy depression clouds—
I stretch my tongue out for a taste.
Sometimes china doll porcelain skin on skin.
Sometimes cashmere sweaters underneath cold denim.
You’re mad.
I am grateful.
The night ends and I am fastened in your anxious embrace
While you are in mine likewise
And together we will bloom and explode to dust wildly
Rinse and repeat.