Confessions Of A Poetess:  Shades Of His Luminescence

I knew he couldn’t love me;
the iron door to my heart
had shut him out.

His liquid eyes were no strength
to burn holes into my vault,
for I seethed within the walls,

Trapped in my own sterility,
a serene silence burning for
his touch, unwarmed
by his affections.

The frost consumed me
like a snow death,
for I was cold,
plastic and hollow.

My voice echoed within,
unanswered.

It was in here
I created him in
holographic separation
of me from him.

He appeared as I dreamed him,
He wore the cast I had given him ---

Every shade of luminescence I
could pen or project into the
nothingness of my febrile heart
as it beat mechanically
and churned out the hours
without him in flesh form.

In shadows of generation
my fantasy bore traces of him,
edging along a lonely rift
implacable without definition,
destined to fulfill all
I had never wanted.

He was already inside me
like a virus; a habit.

His virulence wore a
humid shortsight
running around my periphery
like a horizon.

And yet I never saw him
in such glowing light.
I only felt him pulsing
like a fever.

My stagnant blood could
not resolve his corpuscles
into something desirable, so
he sunk deeper into my nerves
where he remained a signpost
of the sick tragedy
that was me, yet

I loved the undoing,
the fractured truth
mirrored in fragments,
jagged pieces of self in which
I saw him appear
reflecting my everythings
becoming my nothings ---

How I have become ice glass.

How in this glass, I see
myself in sharp resolution.

A precarious pixellation
of what I have become
in clarities counterpart
as so he sees me
as it falls apart
like broken glass.

It wends its way
under my skin to lodge
in my temperments
becoming shadows of a man
I never loved, never knew,

I only saw his eyes and
forgot them like
snow is forgotten
once it rains and
the sun comes out and beams
as his eyes never did
and as my heart never could
in the shade of his unmaking.