hyacinth

I glance upwards and he
blinds me before I can look
him in the eye. Sometimes
on a cloudy day or every three years
I get close, until he notices
and burns a hole into my retina that
lingers, like a speck of dust, except
it can’t be blinked away.

I used to long for his kiss,
hidden beneath artificial shade,
my fingers painting safety in white.
I wanted him to bless my
pale skin, until I learned
his kiss was a bite
and my mother’s side has a history
of cancerous melanoma,
and I don’t tan, I burn.

His lips are rough.
He promised escape even as
he tore off my face,
wearing a grin and he won’t let go.
He promised escape but he won’t let go.

I pinch away skin-peels and
try to blame it on the wind.
I shield him from my mother’s warnings
even though he stings,
sliding pennies down my throat and hoping
the acid in my stomach turns
them into something sweeter.

Maybe because I heard so much
about him, growing up—how I’d
need his touch to make me whole.
He played a lyre, rode a golden
chariot in the morning, painted
the clouds pink and orange at dusk.
He’s a god, they told me.
He breathes life into our mouths,
dances in our hair so we
remember how to laugh.

He loved a man once and turned
him into a flower, they told me.
I want to be a flower.

Maybe that’s why I keep hoping
next time, it’ll hurt less.
He’s good for you, they tell me
even as I return home with
dark spots he’s pulled to the
surface of my skin, his promise
pressed into my flesh,
my melting eyes.