Love’s Delusion by Samantha
I must be going mad – distastefully so, and yet I still taste sweet confessions as they drift down my throat. They descend with such hesitancy, and it is all I can do to swallow them with utmost reluctance.
I can lick my “I love you” and swing the hodgepodge of words around my mouth. The phrase turns into alphabet soup. I can let the letters tease you into analyzing the situation just this one time. With a cutting glance at your shoulder I can make you look down and then sneak your eyes up to meet mine, but it is too late; my face turns despondent, and you are left to cope with your own thoughts. I can make you say “I love you” to the wind in hopes that the words reach me, and I can turn my back to the phrase and let the light air gust push me away from you. I can reject a self-crafted “I love you” just as easily as you can reject love itself.
“Are you going mad?”
I let your question run a marathon through my ears. It sings a bitter tune to a weary heart, “I’m mad for you, and I’m mad at me for not having you. Indeed, I am going mad – distastefully so…”
There are prettier ways of experiencing insanity than locking feelings under my tongue. Tasting tea that lifts my spirits over perfectly arched rainbows and sends my eyes under a stage of a merry play may qualify as “craziness.” It is escape. It is lovely. Patting love on the back like a dejected child is not lovely.
“Patting love on the back like a dejected child is not lovely!”
You now know insanity, don’t you? It’s right before you. I let words roll out the way yours did when you first caught my notice, yet they no longer fit in the context of our conversation. Instead, my words are unwelcomed statements of fact; they are the collateral of oppressing emotion, yet still being able to access it by flicking my tongue a certain way. I could smack my lips about and scream “I love you” into your ear yet you would not hear me. All you would hear is madness. All you would hear is an unwelcomed statement of fact. All you would hear is your own ignorance.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I sing to the wall later in the evening. “You’re nothing but a bird in the arms of a hunter. Soon your tune will mean nothing to the trees,” the wall gives me a softened frown. All you would notice is a white coat of paint. “Soon your misinterpretations will mean nothing to me.”
I think of a burlesque dancer with swaying hips of intoxication. I roll up the rumbling jazz tones and guide them into the wall.
I think of a comfortable smothering feeling. I think of whispers from lips that do not possess a clear owner.
Those lips kiss the wall and fade into the background.
“I must sip more tea!” I smile maniacally. “I must sip more tea and follow the curve! Shoot the bird, archer! Patting love on the back like a dejected child is not lovely!”
Tomorrow your eyes will look over to me as we sit in the farthest corner of my mind.
My face will turn despondent, and you will be left to cope with your own thoughts….