Anarchist of Romance

“One day you will ask me which is more important? My life or yours? I will say mine and you will walk away not knowing that you are my life.” -Kahlil Gibran

–

He looks at me,

really looks,

“You’re an anarchist of romance.”

He laughs.

“Anarchist of romance.”

I like the way it

rolls

But still maintains an element

of formality.

A title ascribed to the back

of somebodies public face.

Or perhaps to the comic-book

version of you.

–

I intend to use it at weddings,

on my Linked-In profile,

on my Tinder.

I’ll make business cards

and hand them out at parties.

“Molly Newhouse

Anarchist of Romance”

–

I’ll post them to ex-lovers

with their second hand words

that no longer fit with my

Anarchist vocabulary.

–

As a blossoming weed of hate,

I introduced myself:

“Bitch.”

Bitch didn’t ward away, those with little desire to stay.

–

“Anarchist of Romance” shows

that I’m experienced

in ruining you.

References available upon request.

Just ask about the places that I’ve been,

the lies I’ve told.

Better yet, ask me when

I told the truth.

AFFILIATION

Vibrations of bass flirt with the butterflies inside my stomach

I open my mouth and they flutter out, starved from light.

My hand seduces the curves of your knuckles,

But it only takes one voice to disturb the air.

 

My windpipe warms with spice and fire;

The fire spreads up my neck and explodes from my cheeks.

I taste the rain on my tongue as the flames smoulder-

This blaze is extinguished.

 

I climb the mountains of bodies littering the floor

And pretend it’s all a game.

Your eyes penetrate my skin; you can see my organs;

You can see my bones; you can see my veins.