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Apocalypse = Revelation = ΑΠOKάλυΨις

Anastasia Kalos

I. Attraction

He doesn’t shine as much as he
shoots pheromones like quills that
burrow under my skin.
He has the eyes, liquid brown and lucid,
orbs that follow lingering shadows
and his pupils dilate and fill with
predatory zeal.
His lips move and his voice tumbles out,
like a relentless wave
from primordial eddying currents.
Words run from of his lips like the most fragrant nectar,
each vowel brushes against my body like sable.

II. Agon

When the barbs come,
They pierce and sting.
Thoughts dissolve,
emotions fragment like shrapnel and
each atom trembles.
He snarls and his face contorts.
I’m the hibernating
turtle that tucks thoughts into
imaginary shells,
folding and adjusting,
to escape through
neural crevices.
I disconnect as another
tattered burgundy
dahlia blooms over my eyelid.
Metal tickles my tongue,
where words dissolve like
candy floss. Within
my ear, a distorted knell
bellows like a foghorn and
I pass out.

III. Denouement

He returns late and drops
like a loaded sack smelling of
French sophistication in a bottle.
In bed, we are divided
and adhere to the worn sheets.
His skin emits the dying fumes of
a marriage between woody
top notes and bad boy rage.
Like morphine, sugar and nicotine
combined, it attracted me once and
sentenced me to a hideous labour and
now, after a period of swollen eyes,
sharp words and bruises, the routine
abruptly ends and morning dawns, its
metallic orange glow bathes my flesh.
His renewed vigor is now
aiming for another lamb.
When my eyelids dare to allow light in,
they accommodate the indentation
of his body on the sheets.

IV. Insight

In the days since he packed,
leaving quietly with no parting words,
rage still prickles my nerve endings.
I wait for confirmation,
that he’ll vanish and dissolve.
I feel blighted, yet liberated,
tired and spent. Between breaths,
my limbs stumble and
hang like wet sheets.
She is out there,
this replica of me.
He’ll open his mouth and smother
her with sugar.
He’ll stroke her with warm protean hands
that will craft cauliflower ears and blood-red
carnations in place of eyes and he’ll shade
the flesh red, which will give way to eggplant purple,
to fade to yellow and return to pale pink.
Until he tires and
she awakes.

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