11/13
Hazelnut Queen, I AM a pleasant peasant. I would kill to sit beside you on the throne. I thought you gathered those facts and had them cataloged in your black book long ago. I heard you wept when I left town on my mule. Send me an S.O.S in print so they let me in the palace upon return. That’s what leaves me second guessing everything. I feel you want me there but I’m seen as an intruder at best.
I suggest you clear the air and welcome me home with you. I am tempted to draft novels pledging my allegiance. The town’s butcher will have my neck rung out in my head if they see me looking at you with intrigue. It’s been that way since my upbringing. Does this make sense, “bro?”
If you ever see me again, please look for my eye’s contact and wink. I need some form of acknowledgement, affirmation and validation, Queen. Give me that and I’ll give you the shirt off my back. I’ll slay the dragons, carry you through the barracuda-infested waters, compose exquisite poetry, grow and tend/water gardens full of roses. Have you guardsmen throw their knives to the ground and welcome me into the castle.
I have “needed” the unnecessary. My eyes WERE blurry. Still, I’ll get half a smile and run on that for decades at a time. Give me a full head nod and lean back because your whole life’s agenda will be handled. I’ll dust my hands and wipe the sweat from my brow taking care of the housework, manicuring the lawn, feeding the hogs and cooking dinner.
Write back to me. Please! I’ll use that documented letter as my get-out-of-jail-free-card over and over again. Watch me! I want the Richter scale broken and still jumping sensing our throne bumping. I want your legs working the whole side business we govern. I want feedback. I want the mirror talking back. It should be studying me, scribbling verses and projecting an opera of sweet pleasantries. Back to the legs, I want them delivering the goods.
It does me good to hear about your side projects sure, but if I can’t get a simple note attesting to your favor addressed to mwa, aka alias number nine… You might be placed behind me.
I identify as an 8 out of 100 because I can’t butter my own roll. That’s about it though. Don’t cry hearing me throw shade on vines that refuse to grow. Calling all woes, gather. Follow me down the path of wrath. I’ll apply chapstick before I lick my, or her lips. My queen aka Cocoa, aka number nine is dope. We soap each other up washing our consciences. We’re left assuming because we don’t communicate openly. That’s it for now, lover! I’m signing off. It’s 6:31a and I gotta retrace my daily routine. I wish you would reach out to me. I wish I could see how it could work. I’d love to see you twerk. I’ll hold your hand as you give birth. I’ll stay by your side through all the dirt involved in you learning to pronounce my name followed by a verb.
