Image for the poem Merciane


Her heart was full of fire ants.
A fleshy jar, pulsating
with potential pain.
I saw this as she rested atop of me.
Her hair unraveling,
like a broken spider web
over one shoulder.
The one with the scar,
where a belt buckle had bit down
that last and worst time,
before she ran away.
When her father justified the wounds,
because she had flinched
and turned the wrong way.  
The ants had crawled in
from those other men
back when,
when she was too tired to leave
and slept with them.
All of that is no longer so
she assures me, with her leaning
into me,  so that her hair hides her eyes.
And kissing her makes me wonder
if that's how the ants got in.
-When too many times,
she had laid outside herself
with her guard down.
Yet, I kiss her, with barely an open mouth.
Recalling fairy tales as a kid
about butterflies in the stomach.
But not all of us had it so well.
She talks about her brother
who was her best friend
and had tried to save her.
How he was the true prince charming
she says, as she looks over at the curtain
that teases an escape.
A window to release herself
and be just a speck
in a billion dots.
-No one would focus on her.
None more; Too close.
She didn't ever have answers
for any of them.
She had only results.  
Her brother has been gone awhile,
like all of them.
Left her with just the ants,  
that they all leave behind.
She has his picture
tucked in a bible.
The one good reality
wrapped in myth.
Here and now, it's
inevitable, we tire
of words, and of propping up
our bodies.
Feigning proud,  
with what we have left.
Too many ants,
can become one colossal
To myself, I vow to stay awake,
I can make it a couple of days.
Nights will be easy.
Me and her are that intersection
where the traffic lights are not synching,
and my brakes are bad.
They always have been.
I let her sleep, her breath is warm,
an Autumn wind.
My eyes close too many times,
so I have to pick out reasons
to not like her too much,
before she wakes.
I can't go with her,
when she leaves
with her crowd
of ants.
I'm too close myself;
Down to bones.
The flutter of her eyes;  
the ants know I'm here.
In her dream, maybe I'm safe enough
because in her sleep,  
she reaches for my hand.
Her love is the dying kind.
Like bubbles from a child's wand.
We've all chased them, to burst them,
before they burst themselves
against a bush, or a lucky flower
that grew just for that moment.
And then it's gone.
Or, we pop our own.
Her brother was a cop
and then a lawyer.
He busted their own father
twenty years too late.
Then he retired
for suicide.
She has a blue ribbon,
ages old, tied around her wrist.
It's faded, slow-burnt by night light.
It held her hair, on her first date
a million ants ago.
I want to take it from her
and have that of her.
Perhaps twine it with
a ribbon that's red, or pink.
Then give it back to her, before she wakes
and hope nothing's the same.
But it's not mine to change.
I am tired.
My eyes are red  
and they're stinging.
I feel the crawling  
across my forehead.
No more thinking,
her ants will come
from me.
I can take it a bit longer.
I should, because
someone owes her something,
for all the times
she was left outside too long.
Written by Styxian
Author's Note
Has nothing to do with ants...
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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