Wuthering Heights (Seven Roads to Self-Prophecy) - Tyla Bidois
mine is a fear of knowing. if everything should happen for a reason, then all hurts are preconceived sacrifices, capsized rose petals for the pestle, that which fed too long on too many in this garden, and my, my roses bloom wild. my roses sing. they hack my waist to taste the fissure, loving as the gardener's shears. both calamities are made in a kind of love.
there are chariots in my lover’s eyes. and my body is a dock, landlocked close enough to bear vessel. white flags. a season of plenty. a tear to the tragic tendency of the too-kind too-foolish type of woman to carve homes out of her flesh for they whose lack subsists in the artificial distance, that imparted between your eyes and the sheets that charter their truest bowers, his secrets too black to tell you now, a chessboard of affection’s darker face in his silhouette asleep, or roused, her perfume on the pillowslip, no doubt, the stink of where his mouth left her cheeks a rubied tangerine of trembling thigh and dew, and mine, turned away somewhere in the ether, in the quiet of cigarette ash and running mascara, to feign sanctuary in the open sea when voluntary entrapment is the only anchor for the hands that don’t let go. we are a plague of weak wrists, rough fingers, arms that can’t hold flesh in stillness no more than they can puncture a fistful of time, yet there are moments in the curl of my elbow about his neck that contradicts the earth’s ordinance. i hang from him, a living noose, with a mercy always to release first. recompose myself, the wind. live in an intimacy of small things and take back the wild, pretending the hunger is yet the same. i am a wolf, but i wasn’t born with such appetite.
no need for armour when a wordsmith has accepted all her nectar, the fire and the flood, the disease of theoria, to twist the talents of self-preservation into the same evil she sought to fight in the first place. she makes a chain with old enemies in the lace of her voice; that same lazy steel; doeish coos of silver-backed automation, wielded at the right flick as all best knives are, indiscriminate; numbness is not emotion, it is activity, a subscription to unfeeling one’s own woe in the certain, innumerable gestures made to steer ship closer to icecap, comfort these moth-like romantics into the empty promise of a veiled flame they will never touch. i will not hurt you, it says, but i will not let you matter. and though sweet as a little candle, if given the opportunity, i will use your hope to perfect my open sprint.
to love you for your pretense, a cross-stitched visage of practice sewn into each leather lapel would be to unsee you from the root, that which does as ever betold a nubile tree maturing in a shock of season, pose the mere increase of its elysian origin, that which might be outgrown, but never abandoned. we are two cars playing chicken, and you will always make me lose.
my favourite pharaoh is ramses the great, because he loved his wife into oblivion, loved her body into monument, bust, hieroglyph, enshrined her tomb in stanza proclaiming her the gateway of sunshine. suppose i should project my image onto the admired, but rather i, the mourner bowed, rather i, sceptred sonneteer, boasting a love to an unreachable eunoia. rather i, writing your name across my scriptures again, trying to exorcise you, funnel your shadow from every asylum i swore you wouldn’t get to see, though i also call you architect. i could love you into oblivion, too.
it is 4am and i hold your hand, ignoring the restless hum of pre-dawn foliage, the blackbird mothers breakfasting in the smog of your eyes, black, as the kettle my fingers ruse to settle your rustling and mostly my own. she who tried to read herself into a dependable solitude, she who tried to learn her way into unhurt, she with enough humour to see how far wish and star fell, and laugh into the sepia.
every day brings with it the shadow of departure, and in their mounting backs is the funeral to old madness, i am the evening thunder, the midnight storm, the sunlight breaking at the execution of dusk. i am all night-faced nobility, mysticism dead and alive, intolerant of untruths, weak excuses for carnal brutalities and the habituation of cowards. i am the smoke rising and the barking jaw, honeyed syllable dripping off fangs to perihelion hymn. in me, truth is simple kisses of loyal fibres dismissed by age and naivete howling and all of me is golden
Tyla Bidois is a BCS student & poet from Mount Maunganui, New Zealand.