Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
In blood or in lipstick
(I can never tell them apart),
I awaken to see
shining upon my mirror:
STEPPUP
What can it mean?
Step up to the plate?
Take responsibility?
Some comment on how
I lost the dog in the divorce,
the new wife now sporting
a step pup?
But I digress.
What am I scared of?
The dark?
The madness of drunken fathers?
Not really.
PUPPETS!
Yes.
What could be more frightening?
Whitney Houston songs?
Maybe.
If words are difficult,
lock them away
in the pages of a book,
for many languages
I speak,
but not this one.
I lie still,
bound at the spine
with threading and with glue.
Should I grow musty,
release your breath upon me.
The words
will bring me back
to you.
My knight arrives
in unexpected garb,
but
I know him.
One kiss
in the slanted
evening light
and a beast
awakens.
I scream.
’Twas only shadows
stirring memories,
making me hungry
for the past.
Celtic angel,
your love
leaves gaping
wounds,
temptations.
If love is true,
look upon
my face and
know my secrets.
I bow before you,
offer my life,
then walk away,
remembering.
Sniffing about,
nose to air,
it seems almost
proper
to prey upon
the weak,
something deep
in our psyche
guiding us to
quash and
conquer.
If your primal
needs a booster,
there’s nothing
for you here.
I’ll hurt you
if you force
your hand.
Don’t rub
your scent
on me.