sábado, 3 de noviembre de 2012

The black dress

Your eyes darted towards me in such a romantic way and you tried to hide it but I knew, I saw the anger in your face.

I was wearing a black dress.

I knew you were going to beat me up for that, later, in private. I was supposed to be your beautiful virginal white bride. And you and I knew perfectly I wasn't. I am only as perfect as you are. You forced me to become as black as my dress. 

No, when we met you hugged me. I haven't left that jail of your arms since. I have forgotten myself, all these things you made me do. No more my body. No more my actions. No more my life. No more my decisions. You could have me kissing another man, you could have me fucking your good friend Nora, you could have me naked in the front garden, you could have me in the ultimate surrender, feigning to be white or virginal, putting me in a white dress, sliding a golden ring in my left ring finger. But I still had my words. I still had my black dress.

I hated you. I loved that I hated you. Maybe I hated that I loved you. That was what my smile meant when I looked back at you. 

Yes, I was wearing a black dress.
Black as the day I'd died. 

But no, you had already killed me. Or you will. Later. You'll have your revenge, black, as my dress. Or as the wounds you'll leave me.