Four Feet One Bed




“True love belongs to the truly mad,”Ā DavidĀ once said.
And instead of a pauseĀ or a period he ended theĀ sentence with a soft and pleasant pout upon my wanting head.
After that, it always felt warm,
my heart that is.

I used to watch him fromĀ theĀ silver rustedĀ mirror in my boudoir;
eyes shut, like a babe in womb, he slept ever so soundly.
Only the faint whispers ofĀ opening and closing heart valves could be heard.
They all took turnsĀ professing his existence.

I stayed still, and quiet soĀ as to absorb every inch of him;

to swallow him in as my own.

And while I’m always thinking in him,
Its while I sleep,Ā Ā he peeks beneath the satin sheet,
happy, for one bed and four feet.

They used to say, “You cannot have it all!”
These are the same they whose boots and heelsĀ are drenched inĀ the blood of abandoned dreams.
They sleep inside a bed of thorns quilted to appearĀ fancy and settled;

They are not.

Their hearts areĀ peeled back and weary as they smile and sell being useful & cheery.

LifeĀ bruised them, and they choose:Ā do not mend.

I find no use in ‘They’ or ‘Them.’
MyĀ resplendent feathersĀ shall not be plucked.

All these thoughts.
Thrown and chasedĀ away thoughts.
I find no use in they orĀ them;
Not while I nestle my cheekĀ inside his beckoning den.

Both baited and hooked,
We are blissful fish with torn lips.


By: Magnolia Lafleur

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