Sleeping Beauty
She lies there, at peace. Sleep covering her like the down-filled comforter she brought with her when she moved in. Only now, she's managed to wrap my comforter about her, along with the blanket embroidered with dolphins. She loves dolphins, passionately; she's even visited a place where you can swim with a dolphin -- for a fee of course. As if anything in this world is free anymore. She has a dolphin tattooed upon her ankle; my tattoo is of a marionette carrying his own cross, master of his own movements. I swiped the design from a Finger Eleven CD artwork design. I adore him. But I love her.
She lies asleep, oblivious to the television, where "American Psycho" is the movie dujour. Her ability to sleep through anything is precious. I envy it. The slightest noise stirs me from my beauty sleep. Which i a shame, because I desperately need it. The odd noise slips from her lips, murmurs from another world, her world. I could sink into a blissful existence within that world, safe within her eyes, her heart. My lullabye would be her heartbeat; my blanket, her love. Harmony, sanctity, sanctuary.
I would create myself a bed of clouds, clouds from the blue skies she envisions and hopes one day to find. I would tickle her senses, and dig out the horrible thougts that snare her, imprison her in a world of pain and self-doubt. I'd shove the nasty thoughts into her stomach and dissolve them in the acids there, punish them as they punish her. And then, I'd lightly spin her eyes inward, so she could see all the beauty I see. The beauty she fails to see.
And yet, even now, she awakens not, not even to the pounding of the keyboard. Not disturbed by the rhythmic beating of my heart. She sleeps, and dreams. And I dream too, of a brighter future for this, my sleeping beauty.