waiting room / by Dahlia Dandashi

this man.

he came as quick as arrived,

a brush fire.

i smell him in trees, the blues and whites of water.

he is the color of life and despair all at once,

coming solely to wash me away.

why do i see him in my dreams?

--

it's all pink and blue and green leaves.

i'm smoking, (i'm always smoking)

my hair is long, his hands are blue 

my body is blue.

i'm not so beautiful here, but in there, i'm eternal.

in there, she is not afraid to be anyone but his.

i do not know her well.

she is tall, legs like poplar trees,

teeth sharp and white like glass.

a queen. 

--

why am i the only one who ever dies?

i come back to life only when he decides.

--

i should not have brought you here.

through the doors, they sit together with their legs spread. cigars in hand, congregated to tell tales about the inside of my thighs.

you leave your shoes at the door.

i know, i know,

the floor is plagued with scissors and hair,

coffee and wine.

my curls are scattered, but my thoughts are shy.

it's not ladylike.

do you see me?

i offer you coffee even though i know you prefer tea,

i color my hair just to chop it off,

who am i? the scissors do not know.

i invited you in, consciously knowing you had no intention to stay.

you came to visit my house, but you never wanted a home

i cut my hair.

do you see me now?

you walk out, empty handed,

and join the men in the meeting room.