House of Cards
It starts with a meeting of eyes across the crowded room.
The air is filled with the buzz of music and merry-making, and the ballroom floor is brimming with couples dancing. She catches his glance from across the room, and he raises an eyebrow. An invitation. She smiles hesitantly in affirmation, and the two meet each other halfway on the dancefloor.
He places his hands on her waist, while her arms drape around his shoulders, and they move in an all too familiar rhythm. Forwards and backwards, left and right, a twirl and a spin - the dance is ingrained in them from years of attending royal celebrations.
After a minute or so, she lifts her gaze to his eyes. Blue and brown meet, both wary and uncertain. This is dangerous territory; the minefield of court politics is a hazardous one, and neither party wants to fall victim to it. Both from opposing families, a controversial relationship is not something they are willing to risk. After all, we know what happened to Romeo and Juliet.
Yet, despite their better intentions, that night ends with them together, and leads to many more. Months pass, filled with days of illcit meetings behind closed doors and sneaking furitive glances at each other in public. Every time their eyes lock, unsaid secrets shimmer in the air between them.
But in the end, their relationship is a house of cards. Each smile, each touch, is another card meticulously added to the structure, the charade. Until a single blow from one of them is all it takes for it to come crashing down.
They both want what they deem the other to have. Money. Power. Influence. And this twisted game of chess is their way of getting it. Both trying to manipulate the other, in a battle of flirtation and wits where the stakes are dangerously high. The royal court is made up of families that will turn on each other in a heartbeat; they will get what they want, even if it means using their own children to do it.
Because in the end, all's fair in love and war.
Missing You
Missing you comes in waves.
First it is the little things.
Your jokes, your laughter, the twinkle in your eye,
the smile you give me before saying goodnight.
They are gentle laps of water at the shore,
leaving me wanting, yearning for more.
But then, the longing grows.
I remember whispered conversations behind closed doors,
and fleeting glances from across the dance floor.
The sea is no longer calm and at peace;
instead it whirls and churns, the waves threatening to consume me.
Now I gasp for air, as it all becomes too much.
I feel the ghost of your touch, and electricity dances across my skin,
causing what-ifs and what-could-have-beens to make my head spin.
They are tsunami waves now, rising high,
and I am drowning, in the remains of goodbye.
What Happened to Martha
They tell us the boxes keep us safe. They give our society order, structure. Everyone has a place, a slot to fit into so that the machine keeps working.
We all live in boxes. Confined to four walls - our ideas, dreams and feelings are enchained, their wings bound so they cannot escape. If you don’t fit into a box, they take you away - no one knows where.
That’s what happened to Martha. Sweet, naïve little Martha, who thought she could be both a scientist and a musician.
She was wrong.
They came knocking at her door, clad in black armour and armed with tasers. They dragged her away as she kicked and screamed, and tossed her in the back of their van as if she were trash.
Because if you didn’t follow the rules, and pick a box, that’s what you were.
Trash.
I don’t know what happened to Martha; we don’t talk about her anymore. But sometimes, at night, I still hear the screams of the little girl, taken away because she refused to be put into a box.
My Angel of Death is Not
My angel of death has no wings.
Instead, he has hair the colour of night and eyes that carry the oceans in their depths.
His smile, warm and inviting, is a knife in my gut.
My angel of death is no stranger.
Rather, he is the one I loved with a burning flame,
a flame that even now, has not faded to embers.
My angel of death does not tell me my time has come.
Instead, he is the one that whispers, ‘Momento mori’ into my ear,
for everything must come to an end.
My angel of death does not treat me gently.
Instead he breaks my heart, shattering it into shards of glass
that bury themselves into me everytime I breathe.
My angel of death does not lead me into the afterlife.
Instead, he lets me continue to walk the earth.
For while my heart may be broken, the pieces still beat.
My angel of death does not take my soul.
Instead, he saves my life, taking the bullet for me.
He may not be an angel of death, reaping souls from their casings,
But he was my angel, and now he is dead.
Mourning
There isn't a sound.
No sobs wracking my body, no cries of misery echoing on the tiles.
Instead there's silence, except for my shallow breathing, so soft only I can hear it.
But there are tears.
They never stop, flowing down my cheeks, leaving glistening tracks in their wake.
Mother always tells me I look beautiful when I cry, and that I should have gotten a job as mourner. Maybe I should have listened to her. At least then we'd have had the money to pay our bills.
At least then I'd have had the money to pay for her funeral.
But instead, I find myself sitting in the bathroom, legs tucked up under me and drowning in the weight of the silence.
I wonder if drowning in the silence would be better than drowning in my tears.