The Lords

She told me to be there. And I am not. I am sitting in the prettiest room in the house. There is a chandelier, and it is pretty. Nothing but pretty. Nothing but silly words. Maybe grand, the silliest of all the pointless words. And the couch I am sitting at is plush, in the way that things made by the devil are plush. Warm, and inviting, a furniture almost sensual, almost truly beautiful, with sin hanging in the air above it, suspended in it, while I am alone. The floor is made of hardwood, the kind that people who like houses look closely at. I couldn’t tell you what wood it was made out of. I don’t know such things, which never seemed to bother her. But when she is in my mind, the couch is much more inviting, it deepens, and I drown in the deep end, like when I was seven and mother left me alone in the lake. But then I was cold, now I am warm, but suffocating, and dying in the most beautiful way possible. I try not to think of her, but the more that you try not to think of things, the more impossible it gets to not. My heart hurts as the door begins to open. And I am sitting on a couch again. Sitting on the surface, just upon the surface, with cold breath that sears my throat, and cold skin that rises in little bumps that somehow comfort me and smooth my drying skin. And leave me feeling much more human, and alive. The Lords walk in, with their gold rings, and nice suits and combed hair. But there are no smiles this time. She told me to meet her, and I would not have to endure this, I would never have to wear things that suffocated me, I would never have to cross my legs, or bat my eyes, or turn myself to The Lords. But I find that I am sitting here, in a tight dark dress, with lacey sleeves, and hard black shoes that cage me in my space, not able to run. And I cross my legs, and keep my hands in my lap, as they stand over me, their hungry eyes upon me. I turn up my chin, and face them. Giving myself to The Lords.