I'm not exactly sure what draws me to them, but I really can't control myself, they're just so sparkly and inviting to me. A guy classified as a peacock is lithe, exotic, fashionable, and artistic. They're usually skinny, like skin stretched and pulled taught over carved muscle skinny. They smoke. They stay quiet. They don't tell you what they really want. And they drink. A lot. All my peacocks were heavy drinkers, those peacocks love their sauce. They wear a lot of black, and their style is underground metro as opposed to Paris runway. Skinny jeans, skinny ties, skinny cigarettes, skinny shirts and fat boots. They're like artwork, because they're so beautiful and so sad looking all at the same time. The most important part of a peacock, is their ink. Peacocks have lots and lots of ink, that is their version of colorful plumage. The body of a peacock, the bird version, is a deep turquoise( which is pretty )but the real wonder is when they present and spread their tail feathers. The body of a peacock, the guy version, is the equivalent of the tail feathers. All the black clothes hide the colorful sketches and markings that race all over their white skin. If you're having a hard time imagining what I'm talking about I can provide you with visual examples, just Google any of these men: Josh Beech, A.J. English, Jared Leto, Adrian Brody, Tyson Ritter, and any guy in any Lana Del Ray music video. Another distinguishing feature of a peacock is their eye color, always so bright and brilliant with a touch or sadness. Crystal blue orbs with a fleck of depression. Or emerald green diamonds with a spark of sorrow. It's what gives them away, and what makes them unattainable. A peacock is a beautiful, alluring and delicate creature; but they want nothing to do with cages or companions. My Roman was a peacock, but he didn't want to be contained. New York was peacock, he also wanted to fly free. I've had and loved dozens of peacocks in my life, and it always ends painfully; so why do I keep chasing them?
They don't mean to be assholes, they're just fatally flawed, exquisitely handsome, feathered creatures. They're not mean on purpose, they just get caught up in the beauty they create, and then they end up breaking your heart and destroying your soul. New York was nothing but wonderful to me, and he was upfront about everything, I knew what I was getting into; but how the fuck do you resist a masterpiece? My Roman hurt me so deeply I am still bleeding on the inside, but it wasn't intentional, it was a side effect of his own pain. It's kind of like Icarus, when you fly too close to the sun you get burned. When I get too close to a peacock I get burned and they fly away. Peacocks are too perfect for their own good, they destroy everyone around them while they secretly try to destroy themselves. They're not bad boys; they're actually wonderful, but they don't know what to do with their wonder.
So, I keep hitting my head with a hammer so when I do stop it'll feel so fucking good. Maybe sometime soon I'll feel good again, and I can finally put down the hammer. If and when I do, it'll mean no more drunk kisses goodnight. No more special moments forgotten when the stars fade. No more dangerous evenings. No more second hand exhales. No more nicotine kisses. No more fall down Saturday nights. No more vodka bruises. No more Jack Daniels sex. No more puffed petals. No more broken feathers. No more peacocks. No more accidental tears.
"Go kiss the liqueur off his laugh" -Natalia Kills
