No, Not a Monster

I was precipitate before a setting sun,

wanting and wasted, temerarious in hope,

devoted endlessly to the idea

that even people come in pairs.

I am afraid of the eternity of this ocean –

a darkening blue I can’t see past.

I have built cities at rock bottom,

yet still remain limber in

hopes and effervescent dreams –

choking on the smoke of burned bridges

while my world floods dark blue.

Who am I, but a monster?

No, not a monster – Godzilla is not so terrible,

quiet in his solitude.

I may be a villain with ease,

but I am also just a girl in her room,

telling the piano her secrets and

letting time ruin perfect things.

I thought gold could

put all the pieces back together.

I yearn to finish the parts I cannot reach

so I hunt with blackening earnest,

breaking and undoing on an endless rise

from a darkening blue.

If you want to know,

don't ask me to rake coals on my arms

and protest quiet whispers of fading devotion.

No - ask me the shape of my loneliness.

I will show you the sun.

I wrote this piece for a writing prompt titled "The Shape of Solitude", but I missed the deadline by a minute. The piece feels unfinished and unpolished, but I think that the form encapsulates the themes of being broken and not fully whole. I was intending to have an even number of lines, but I chose to have an odd number, feeling it was more appropriate. With each idea, I wanted to leave the reader with a feeling of missing something, a mirrored feeling of yearning.