Turning Point by Shaima Saleh

Posted on December 25, 2011 by

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Delicate whispers of ravishing need, you let into my sky. Endless spirals of lavender and guilt, your desire led me through. Like the heroes of our time, we took whirling, reflective steps into apathetic sweetness. The days became tangerine sunrises and musk sunsets. The nights brought a gut-twisting clarity and an existence of make-believe. We spoke in pinky promises of blueberries and music. In erratic breaths and historical relics. Your rebellion ignited the revolution against the tyranny of possibility. You were the blanket of comforting sympathy, the apologetic strums of a sentimental guitar, the desperate apparel marred with a smile; the smile that took me back, forth, left, right, skywards and down to hell.

 

It was the time of the glorified sunshine; the time when beauty was mistaken for laughter and when lust was mistaken for faith. It was the time of pink fallacies, strawberry limbs and star-struck eyes stained with the tender kiss of grieving lips. Those sorrowful strokes down your back, those hopeful tunes against my chest. Those barely clothed, lustful gazes engraving lullabies of bite marks across our cells. When the apocalypses of confusion told the tale of the wicked lips, the sway of the hips, and the veiled gusts of blood. When we hummed the serenade of teeth torturing lips and the sadistic desires to rule them all. How we wished for late-night quarrels and morning sin; for torn sheets and bitten pillows. How we falsified madness and embezzled souls. Perfect was us. Damaged was us. Complete surrender, free falling, loss and sanctuary.

 

But then you had the audacity to feed me with faith. You injected it deep within me until my breath glowed with it. How dare you? How dare you commit those beautifully heinous crimes? How dare you make me look up at the stars, long for the night, love the moon? And me – how dare you make me love me? What a shameless lover and a lousy friend you were; what a loyal partner and a possessive victim I was. Our dance of pity and surrender became that of passion and blame. You sung me into a Martha, dear, Tom Frost. You’ve written yourself as the ephemeral turning point; the eternal soul thief.

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