I once loved a merman from his nestled, blonde
twine to his delicate fins which rested on a shore of
blankets and pillows. Hidden like a pearl in a clam,
the merman was emotions beneath scales.
His cerulean eyes were speckled with grey and
sometimes he hooked himself to the fishing lures
like a childish fool. They would pull him up to
the surface, rip out the sharp J and cast him back.
Again and again, the fish boy would do this,
an idiot of Neptune whose heart was in all the
right places. He loved art, he loved dying,
he loved his absent father and he loved me.
However, he could never adore himself and
tried to fit inside a shoe, stood naked in the cold
and caught the mental flu, over the coo-coo’s
nest, and he died and died and died.
Sometimes he cried, blubbered salty oceans,
drowned the soul and wrapped his sores in
seaweed. His tender ego, enormous Poseidon,
he swallowed his pride like fifty pills.
Whenever the merman called upon me with
his sonar, I knew he needed a reason to stay
alive and wanted to feel important. And god
was he the Atlantic on my fingers.
There were times when the both of us were
nude yet fully clothed, confessing how to we
felt the same darkness. His was dismal, bleak,
thin as a toenail and hopeless.
Mine was more of an infatuation, an escape,
a lost ship in the Bermuda triangle, feeling
the nerves rattle me insides like baby toy
and longing for lips and saliva.
It was the merman’s pearl I craved, his mind,
his soul, the very water he swam through and
a body that absolutely disgusted him. I wanted
to make him feel beautiful.
But the saddest part about loving someone
who can’t love themselves is that they’ll never,
ever be able to hold your heart because
they’ve never held their own.