black magic

once I fell in love with a boy into black magic. I did not fall in love with him because I was looking for a boy, because I wasn’t. and I did not fall in love with him because I wanted to learn black magic, because I didn’t. I fell in love him because he wasn’t me.

I said I wasn’t looking for a boy and what I meant was that I was looking for a man, preferably one with a beard as wild and full as his life. one with hands as rough as the sea he sailed in an old weathered boat. hands that could scratch the spots on my back I couldn’t reach. but such a man had not entered into the picture, and instead I found myself looking at a boy who was not a man, but was also not me and was in the picture. and so, I decided we should try to love each other.

perhaps it was because he was so tall. I was able to ignore his lack of length in other areas, such as his attention span on any subject other than himself. every time I found myself wanting to escape this trap I myself had laid, I would ask him how tall he was. “six nine.” he would tell me like it was the first and not the 50th. a ridiculous length really, our bodies not meant to touch. my lips wanting mouth found his belly button. my hands always struggling to reach his face. yet he could always find my spot for his "warlock" as he liked to call it. it was the only thing that always managed to find the appropriate location. “must be nice,” I would think to myself as I imagined a man.