Whispering her smile
Looking beatific,
Looking arousingly terrific,
Uninvited but invitingly,
Place my pointer finger
Upon her breast, nipples already attentive,
Erect,  she preps to dance and to
Leave me

Bid her despedida,
For my adieu is tinged
With desperation internal raging,
For tantalizing, J'accuse,
Guilty as charged

My tango muse,
Off to dance in dives,
Where all the men are
Strangers, who paid in cash,
With creased and stained $20 bills,
To soil themselves, to dance with my woman,
Paid far in advance.

For consorting with the enemy,
I renounce her not, but guilty charged,
For mesmerizing, J'accuse,
Guilty as charged

She'll return, after three,
Undress before me,
Purportedly sleeping,
Pointedly, slowly, knowingly,
To insure I scent the sweat
That tango demands,
The sexual side effects,
The Argentines invented,
Accoutrement rituals,
Excuses to invent dance,
In order to pleasure intensity,
For teasing w/o mercy, J'accuse,
Guilty as charged

She chambers her body bullet,
Sliding in unrobed,
For a negligee would be
Negligent in her condition,
Laughing at my pretend closed eyes,
She whispers,:

I return here, to you
For one reason alone
Despite soul and body, exhilarated,
While gone, you have been composing
About me without permission,
Of  this, of thee,
J'accuse!

I know you have penned
Poem,
Which long after the dance thrill has chilled,
Will belong to me forever,
I will kiss you now so I may taste the
Words  that are mine, until next week,
When I will be guilty again
Of charging your imagination

in the second grade
I wrote you a love letter
on lined yellow paper
in my very best cursive
with my special blue pen
and signed my name
at the bottom of the page
with a heart and xo's
then folded up the letter
into a little yellow plane
and threw it as hard as I could
expecting it to glide through the air
but the little yellow plane
crashed before if reached you
and my paper plane
was crumpled and crushed
like I swore my heart was
when I had a crush on you
back in the second grade

in the seventh grade
I wrote you a poem
on lined white paper
in curved loopy scribbles
with my favorite pen
and signed my name
at the bottom of the page
with a lip gloss kiss
then I folded up the poem
so it would fit in your locker
and hid it inside
then waited patiently
for you to open it
then ran to the bathroom and cried
when you finally did
and laughed at my poem
and threw it away
like I wanted to do to my heart
when you broke it
back in the seventh grade

in the eleventh grade
I wrote you a letter
on my white lined arm
in angry bold letters
with my sharpest blade
but didn't sign my name
at the bottom of my arm
I instead slashed a red x
on my pale scarred wrist
and kissed it with
bloodstained lips
then waited patiently
for the red to trickle down
my white lined arm
and the world to go black
and for my heart to stop beating
the way that it finally did
when I stopped loving you
in the eleventh grade

-sg

Considering the context
I'd say it has something to do with self-reflection
Self-realization
Or Orwellian Dystopias
I just can't decide which...

What is certain
Is that it's not about love

Perhaps a Eulogy
Sung in the Key of abstraction
Perhaps a snare of low cunning
Sprung on the unwary
Perhaps a dissonant reconstruction of post-modern  proletarianism
Or other such big words

But certainly
Not about love

No,
This poem
Is about the errant nature of nature
About pinning still fluttering butterflies to dry-wall
About scribbling half-drunk non-sense on the wall of a bathroom stall because it's the only way to keep yourself from screaming
This poem
Is about sleeping with the lights on
But it is not


About love

As I sit down to type these words, there is nothing more that I want to write about than you. You clog every pore in my face, every inch of my mind, every cell of blood that runs in my veins is tainted by the thought of your voice saying my name. However, I do not wish to write about how your eyes burn through my flesh and seep into my bones. I want to write about something real, something raw. Something that is not just a lonely desire I carry. I want to write about. . . you. Its always been you, this stupid lust, this first love. I want to write about how I take the looks you throw my way and hoard them in a crystal box, that no one will ever open because I am the holder of the key. And I know this isn't fair for you because it is not my box to keep, you’re eyes are not meant for me. . .I want to write about heartache and longing for your arms around me. I want you to know that I want you to be happy. I’ll write you letters everyday if I need to. But I will not send them, for I know you will think it’s strange that a girl like me is so infatuated by a boy like you. But it doesn't matter because even though you are broken, I want you. Not so I can fix you or try to heal you. I want to feel your pain with you, so that when you feel like you are drowning, you will know that you’re not alone. . .I want to write silly metaphors that only a young naive girl could come up with, that are so cliche it hurts. But it won’t matter because I can feel your hand in mine and the earth underneath my feet. And when I inhale the air around me, I know it is your exhale that is being sucked through my empty lungs. . .I don’t want to write a love poem, but when I think of you, it’s all there seems to be.

Lately words are all I have to cling to. I wrote a poem of apology. In the most beautiful way I could imagine. I lost every word that meant so much to me. Please be farewell. I know this wasn't just some whim. You struggled long and hard. Please forgive me for not making it easier for you. I care for and love you. Maybe in a couple months we can get some breakfast once again. Maybe in a couple years we might even try a date. I've got a good soul and I never meant to trap you.

I'm not worthy
of his
total affection adoration enthrallment
it isn't fair for him, truthfully, to have the one
who is scared of all that.
terrified to not be the girl who
belongs to everyone & no one at once
the girl who is writhing
trying to hold tight & strangle
the guilt grief regret shame
but also driven by
anxiety that all my writing
suddenly needs to tell everyone
that I am trying & anxiety
that I am so moved by him, the
affected girl who can't
function
walking into the sunset hand in hand.
I seem to fight every step
as if I'm not sure
I feel safe
being near the ocean that lets roam unchained & wild the
sharks, giant squids, leviathans & my beloved giant leatherback sea turtles
so endangered & dear.
The anxiety of the surprise contract to
dedicate every poem to him
& plan a future
without planning an end, too.

You know, I would like to call this a poem
But really all it feels like is bleeding.
Like the flood that pumped through me is,
Wasted.
And trust me,
That hurts.
When I think of all,
I can't help but cringe.
Because somewhere in the between I lost the pieces of my puzzle,
That I was really looking for.
And that the love that I etched so carefully
Into the lines of your face
Ticked backwards, like a forgotten clock,
At his mention.
For you, I connected constellations in your freckles,
As though there was some kind of system of finding my
Way in this labyrinth that I know so well.
I found oceans of depth in those eyes,
That promised me salvation in happiness
That promised love in loss.
Although I have learned,
That when you explore too deep
It is easy to become lost.
The bleeding isn't a pattern,
There is no rhyme to this reason,
Only treason and tragedy.
So excuse the torrent,
Because I've already drowned in the flood.
Remember when flowers grew in the garden?

You are a genius with words. You are the best writer I've ever known. Your my favorite poet. Now I will never read a thing you write again. I'm half way through your series. The main character is at a cross roads. What will she do? Sadly the book is real, and the choices can't be taken back. You can't twist this story in a favored light. If you wanted me compliant. You have everything you want. You say you're not trying to hurt me, your not trying to be cruel. Sadly that is far from true, actions always speak volumes more then words. You lied to me while in your parents basement. Probably countless times before you left. If I could do anything compared to what you did to me I might try. There isn't though. Not for someone so cold. I read your poets poem about his knife within my chest. He was right in every aspect.