The way that your mouth twisted against mine
Told me that you wanted to be anywhere but in the moment.
Yet your body moved into mine flawlessly, as if it had always been there,
As if we were seeing each other for the millionth time,
And you laughed - realizing the ridiculousness of it all.
I looked at you as though you were the most lovely thing I’d ever seen.
A thousand times I told myself that I was not bad,
But I was walking a line, and toeing it less and less carefully.
It was selfishness that flooded through me, causing me to
Kick your reservations to the floor.. to stomp
On the respect that had grounded you from touching me
And we realized that there’s always another line somewhere.
When you finally spoke, you spoke as if you were talking through
A tin can and string, grainy and mottled – strained with brooding guilt.
I heard things like, “can’t” and “wrong” and “if only” -
But your words - underwater echoes - vibrated against my brain,
And gave me an unwelcome tightness in my throat.
I said nothing.
I breathed hot air against your neck, rejecting your requests of pause.
When I touched you, my fingers grazed your side, grazed the flat, smooth
Skin of your stomach, creating static movements under the covers.
It was a hard thing to understand, I realized, being drawn to someone
So unavailable. So unreal. And yet, there you were.
More charged and more real than anyone I’d ever known.
All the “no’s” disappeared into the sheets, quietly overturned by our
Undeniable attraction to one another. You unraveled me -
Carefully stripping off the layers that made me feel like I was good.
Raw and uncertain, I sank into your hands.
And for the moment, when your mouth twisted against mine
I pretended it moved like silk.
I pretended we were threaded together
By something bigger than we really were.
Like all the bad in the world was good.
Good enough to keep moving against each other in that hungry way.
Silk. Soft – delicate – fine enough to tear.
And so we did.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
I tried to sew us together
with pillow talk and Tuesday date nights –
a twine, twisting around our half-empty hearts
like a snake strangling its prey.
It began with a sidelong glance,
a quick white lie settling on the edge of my tongue,
and you, wrapped in the enigmatic smile
she wore that day in the office.
You tried to glue us together
with our ancient conversations –
adhering us weakly to promises
we’d long ago broken and never admitted to.
It was obvious in the repeated arguments
about your ugly comforter,
how much I hated the distance
driven between us by our diverging futures.
Together we chipped away
at the concrete foundation laid years ago
when I confessed that I loved you
on that hot, windy night in Aruba.
It sometimes resurfaces
when I mention tomorrow,
the look of terror you didn’t think I saw then,
but you sometimes still wear.
And I know that the days we live
are drifting us farther apart –
wedging themselves in the cracks
we’ve made with each biting word.
It tightens, the fraying tether that binds us,
as we stretch further and further,
and although we know it will someday break,
we hold on to each other for now.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
I marveled at his big, chicklet teeth.
They were huge, white, s t a r i n g a t m e.
I smoothed my tongue over them and fell in love.
The kind of love that snaps, crackles, and pops all in an instant.
That dizzied me like a kaleidoscope.
Like my head was under my feet.
He was older but I was wiser.
Wise enough to know better.
But then I forgot.
It was a round-peg in a square-hole or whatever they call it but that's what it was.
Anything sticks together if you have enough glue.
Our dreams were the same! We were changing the world.
Or so we thought.
He said things like, "tomorrow" and "everyday" and "always."
I said, "yes" and "forever" and "only."
Secretly I shuddered.
Big teeth and big heart and big dreams but small us.
It ended in September.
On a Sunday.
And I wonder now where he's gone.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
today
it was onthefloor, my heart,
and i would say your worn-out treads
stomped it backtolife
pressure and rhythm and tongues
thatgettied and i whirled around
like a bag - the wind (thatisyou)
filling and carrying me
tomorrow
i will forget the way we
met and made eachother and begin to
undo this mess [trapped] in myownhead
i will pushANDpushANDpush you
until you disappear into a dream
or a memory or this thing ithinkididonce
but now i'm not sure
(pause) - there you are!
whenever i don't want you
so i closemyeyes (squeezethemshut)
and i ask you to go. now. please. . .
you're a blur. a mist. a thingofthepast
and i won't remember you or the way
your fingers felt when they tangletangletangled
in my hair and wrapped around my heart
i will you away. (goaway!) but i miss
the smell of your aftershave and the way
you said 'three' and the tinyjaggedscar
halfhidden by your eyebrow
and i know i can't forget
not today not tomorrow
(but maybe after that)
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
shackle upon shackle
trading sweet, honey whispers
for ball and chain;
for illiterate moments;
for bitter but sweet
coffeecake kisses.
he'll break you if he can,
from the walk
to the dress
to the sidewalk
until there's sick in your hands
and your mouth and your hair.
day after day
pricing marketplace smiles
worth two dollars;
worth ten;
worth only what the
courting fools will pay.
they'll bargain if they can,
from the door
to the street
to the vendor,
and when there's nothing left to
buy, go home to their wives.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
i felt his poetry
as he sauntered into the room
disguised in a tattered t-shirt
and acid-washed jeans:
it took me by surprise
how ugly they were.
rhythm but not rhyme from
his electric hair and
ink-stained skin and
***** fingernails
drum - drum - drumming
against the side of his arm.
i clawed at my insecurities
pouting my lips and
flipping my hair and
sticking my chest out
but i was invisible
or he was immune.
it was not real love,
i told myself for
the third, tenth, twentieth time.
because real love is flannel
and wool socks and a cup of
hot coffee on a sunday morning.
it was not real ***
i assured my aching body
one last time
because real *** is salt
and breathlessness and teeth
burrowing into my skin.
this is something else.
something that covers,
encases, weighs
heavy on me although
i mostly can't say what it is,
only what it isn't.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC