Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
coyote Sep 2016
phase one:
the crowds part for him, and something
inside you does too; followed by your lips,
followed by your thighs. you utter his name
in your empty apartment just to feel its
weight on your tongue. he scares you.

phase two:
he still scares you but you've moved things
around to make room for the fear. you give
it a bed. you give it his name. you feed it.
you realize all at once that you could love
him, and you are breathless with relief that
you don't. but you could, just like you could
hit the gas instead of the brakes and plunge
into a ravine. on the road and then in the
river just that fast.

phase three:
you're in the river. you wonder if you were
ever really on the road. you think maybe you
can live like this, just like you thought you could
breathe underwater when you were four or so.
exhaling is fine, it's easy, but on inhale you flood
your lungs. he isn't what you needed, he is the
water choking you, but it's not his fault you don't
have gills. it isn't his fault you hit the gas instead
of the brakes.
coyote Sep 2016
i know how this will end.
i will sneak into your apartment
before the cops arrive. i will take
one of your shirts from the hamper,
your blanket off the bed, and sleep
wrapped up in both every night
until i remember how to
dream without you.
coyote Aug 2016
i have your sticky fingerprints all over my face:
laying on the carpet, drawing with crayons, waiting
out the storm. i've loved you since we were nine or
so, making plans to start a rock band but never learning
to play. we just wanted to end up together, just didn't
have the language to say so in so many words. i still don't.
coyote Aug 2016
first: the i’ll-follow-you-anywhere kind of new love. the swell of promise, of possibility; the beginning of a long walk through a dark town that you've never visited, the moment of accepting all you don't know, disregarding the unknown variables, and wanting to give it a shot anyway.  

compare to: i’ve followed you everywhere, and now i know how you sleep and what your blood looks like; i know you and i love you anyway.
coyote Jul 2016
flies in my honey,
ants in my bed.
the crucifix is crying:
jesus wants down.
coyote Jun 2016
my first clear conviction
since i found jesus in louisiana:
i will not die. i will not let you **** me.
coyote Jun 2016
to apologize would be a bruise to your
pride, but  i love you emerges from a
tangle of teeth and wire, and for another
night i stay.
Next page