by A. Marie Kaluza
You are always in danger.
A moth infiltrates the house and puts you in harm’s way,
the milk carton tips over and drowns you in its tears,
the bus pulls away as you are just making it, and your hopes
are dashed into dry roses, clattering onto the asphalt.
You love to be amongst the world but you are not safe there.
Your tattoos of eldritch gods and wolves do not protect you.
I fold you under my thin pink wing, escort you from the tarmac
to the ferry, and buoy you with tales of my adventures;
I assure you you are safe with me.
A little over a month ago you almost screamed.
You suddenly noticed again you were not good enough for the world
and acted accordingly. While running away you got caught,
and were taken under the arm and guard of an ex-lover,
who tied you to a bar stool and refused to let you go.
I don’t have the funds for a majestic steed
but my feet seemed to work just fine. I knocked the bartender over
with an egomaniacal rant and stole you away, padding the trouble
with a twenty on the counter. I’d have carried you
if you weren’t such a lunk and didn’t have a penis.
You kiss me beneath the stars.
We go home and you cement your devotion to me
with a cornucopia of sizzling meats, sweet drinks and jams.
You tell me I am the bravest person you have ever met.
At midnight I tuck you into the bed, and peck your forehead.
“Sweet dreams, my Prince.” I say. You have survived another day.
The next two hours I prowl the dark, searching for any ill will
that may befall you, wielding a rolled up National Geographic
and a dishrag, ready to kill any sneaking insect or nightmare
that might threaten your peaceful, damselesque dreams.