The Boy With The Red Hair
I think about him always
The Boy with the red hair
Standing in the blinding sunlight
In front of the kitchen window
A small breeze in late afternoon.
The warm light scared the shadows from his face
That day with the dishes all stacked up.
I think about the look in his eyes
I think about the way they laughed at me.
He was see-through like paper
Ink on parchment held up to stain the air
He was so beautiful that it hurt to look at him
I was so tired if him it hurt to breathe.
He stepped backwards slowly
Bare feet slapping on warm tiles
The wind flirting with his minimal fringe
Caressing his form
Like stray hands in a locked bedroom.
He almost wore an expression as he looked at me,
Almost looked human
But he was emptiness in a beautiful shell
Pale and glowing in the sunlight
With blood on his hands.
I was pulled towards him
The evidence of his sin catching my insides
With frightening intensity,
Feverish and on fire
He looked at me for something he'd never get.
I loved the feel of his skin
Bruising under my fingers as I pushed him back
We collided with the counter
He let out a breath on impact
That was swallowed by my lips.
My hand slipped into dirty dish water,
In the clumsiness of my Passion
He never closed his eyes.
And even as I kissed him I saw my escape,
Even as my lust cooled no anger came to replace it,
No passion because he was not a person.
Because it wasn't real, because he was a doll.
A red haired doll, porcelain skin stained
With sun and blood.
I think about him always
The boy with the red hair
Bruised and cracked
And in someone else's hands.