Poetry By Dythandra

A Road Trip

I see the ad online--Switchblade Symphony,
In concert, but too far away for a day trip.
I do have friends, messages fly
Our plans are made.

The parentals, choosing unwisely,
Pick this time to make their stand.
Seems the school's been calling about me
Yet again.

I don't argue, so much as glare.
Still, they are insistent,
And needing cash more than permission
I am marched into "counselling".

I recognize the counsellor,
She's tried to break through before
I am resistant, but she holds my travel plans
Unwittingly, within her power.

I see her family photos, smiling--so... traditional,
Not that her... orientation matters;
I see such tastes as fluid and evolving
And so it begins.

"I'm ugly--no one wants me," I complain.

No dear, you're really very lovely,
Under all that white makeup...

And so our exchanges go--
I've already scripted my part,
And the mini-recorder is easy to hide.

I spend a day editing;
The results are better than I had hoped.

I call her direct line--she sounds so... ill-prepared
I just play the recording of her words
If their sentiment were real
I might even blush.

She tells my parents what they need to hear,
And my trip is justly my reward.
Unfortunately one of my compatriots,
Is not a worthy travel companion.

You've never really tasted blood, have you?
Your own doesn't count.

I could lie, but why rise to her bait?
"Poser" is such a cruel word.

Our discount hotel is not so careful
About locking up their kitchen knives at night
A large one finds its way up to our room.

She wakes to find me sitting, crosslegged
Beside her on the bed,
Fingering the blade, humming.

"I just dreamed your blood tasted... salty"

She's gone by breakfast time.
Luckily for her,
'Twas only her ticket that was scalped.