Mayhem Literary Journal is generously sponsored for 2019 by Te Whare Wananga o Waikato, The University of Waikato

The morning after - Mike Bilodeau

I want to say I love you.
I want to tell the world that your rich, golden eyes boiled the sapphire reflection of the moon from the night sky.
That we danced constellations, cleaving our bodies through the dark ebony night.

I want to tell tales of how my fingers never truly felt until they fell upon your ivory shoulders.
How my mouth had never drawn breath until your lips caressed me to life.
I want to feel time splinter, to feel space rip, 
to see the earth careen past its slow arc into the blinding darkness. 
I want the universe to crumble under the magnitude of what we’ve created.
But that will never happen.
Truth be told, you’re the barnyard slut who wakes alongside my splitting headache and flooding feeling of regret.
You’re that foreign, nameless stranger; tongue dripping stale whisky and awkward plans of getting breakfast together.
This isn’t some blue-sky, golden-sun tale of star-crossed lovers and fulfilled destiny.
This is the very live and visible act of repression, taking place before your crusted, stagnant-coffee colored eyes.
Sorry to say sweetheart, but the flower-petal words I pumped into you last night were nothing but purpose driven pieces of rehearsed bullshit, strategically placed to weaken your knees and ease my path to that damp, well-used crawl space between your legs.
You, with your fat, marbled hips, constantly cold to the touch.
You, with your yellowed skin and nicotine filled pores. 
Every word which crawls from your cracked lips splashes bile on to the back of my whitened tongue.
Every inch of my body which fell under your clammy hands feels diseased and dirty. 
Feels as though it needs to be excised. 
Feels as though it needs to be torn from me, lest your wretchedness spread like gangrene.

I wish that the very thought of our love had the power to cripple me; 
the power to drag the earth to a standstill, 
the power to draw out the boundaries of the possible; but sweetheart,
I really just want you to get the fuck out of my bed.

Contributor's Note

I am a 27-year-old law student who uses creative writing as a brief repose from the tedious monotony of research and referencing that encompasses our legal system. 
As a result, I tend to swear in my writing.... a lot.
Soz.

 

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