A moth
Ghost girl, how broken do I need to be?
That's a joke, not serious words.
You know I'm your only cockroach.
Oh my dear Mika,
I really hate hiding your name.
Dear Mika,
My antenna is stuck under a crack.
Last time, you promised to end my suffering.
You said you'd step on me, so I'd burst and leave a mess.
But I don't care.
I know reality is kind to the loved, while I am left in endless despair, not worthy to die by your hand, so destined to die under your foot.
Dragging my body harshly on the ground,
Piece by piece, I fall apart like a failed deal on Wall Street.
But I am devoted to you, moth.
When I entered this dusty room, filled with stains from unknown things,
Your shoes are a perfect example of my misplaced existence, while parrots sing horror film notes.
You are the shadow in love's darkest corner.
You are the truth of da Vinci's Mona Lisa,
The purple texture behind starry skies,
With hair like a cultic flame,
And a fruity tongue that drips melon,
Sweating pure spring water that I crave,
With eyes like a Greek goddess of pleasure.
I am devoted to you.
I want to create an altar for you,
With your heavenly face on the windows,
Etched into the glass, trapped in a broken clock, yet part of time.
You are an itch that pain can't remove,
A ghost I want to haunt me at night,
A silent portrait watching by day.
I await your arrival as a savior,
Even if you're not always as cold as ice,
And come to me rarely,
And ignite the fire for me to cut open my chest,
Hold my breath and give you my last humanity.
My heart beats while it bleeds.
Queen, am I your main focus, or should I kneel?
Or is my offering too bland for you as darkness consumes?
Your voice is gentler
Than a child's world,
And more complex than a moving shadow.
It's a shock to my soul.
When I said I'd hold my breath,
I meant I'd squeeze my lungs
And pull out my heart alive,
Traumatized by the attack, fibers tearing from my chest,
With thoughts begging to stop.
I know it ends in your arms,
But I'll likely never reach your tongue.
Whenever your new face shows flaws,
And colors with imperfections,
And your makeup pities you, ironically,
Sylvia Plath's words are a mockery of sanity.
All the paint on every blemish and pimple,
Judged by the mirror,
You blame the glass for anxiety,
But I believe it's you peeling your face with nails, carving bone and flesh.
I wish, I sincerely wish, as if God would take my calm heart and make them your thoughts, so you won't get angry when anxious and find peace alone.
Regardless, I've heard you happy, seen you alive, you already have a heart, and I long to find a reason for you to use it.
Even though I see you as a moth,
Metaphorically a living ghost,
I'm the simplest reason.
I want you to be heaven's gift,
And give up the illusion of worth.
I have truth but don't use it.
I'll never be your savior.
I am a cockroach.
I cannot save a soul.