This is not a poem to idealize you, but
I remember your body well.
I miss how soft your skin was, the way it smelled
like your bed, back home when we…when you
would hold and kiss me lightly.
I hadn’t loved you then.
You were a stranger, with new paint and gold embroideries,
a beautiful boat in a safe harbor.

No, I did not love you then.

It was when I could see my fingerprints on your windows,
the scuff marks on the floors,
and the nights I’d hear you creek and moan.
It was when I felt the dulling of the brass
on the railings I used most often,
the day I memorized the placement of every
chip of paint, and ugly barnacle.

I wish you felt the same.

When we met, I was far away
(I had not loved you then).
You saw my silhouette and imagined
a glowing vessel of gold and pearls,
delicate and wild.

I’m sorry to have disappointed you
with my wooden frame, and chipped paint.
The creaks and moans of a body at sea.
The parts I loved of you,
you didn’t wish to see in me.

So let me set aside the flowery words
the alliteration and simile.
Let me speak plainly.

You are a miserable self-fulfilling prophesy
riding on the coat-tails of sympathy
with an ego so self-righteous, so blind
that if you were handed a mirror,
you’d only see another stranger to criticize.
You wouldn’t know love if it hit you in the face,
And it has, on several occasions.
I now fully understand the stories
of women running you over with cars,
and screaming profanities from 2nd story windows.

You called them crazy, but,
I only wish I had the nerve to join their ranks.

You are a judgmental, emotional leech
squirming in your own self hatred and soiled clothes,
imposing your disparaging insecurities
onto the ones who try to clean you up.
So please believe me that when I say

“*******”

It is only because they have not created a word
powerful enough
to describe the sour taste your name leaves in my mouth,
or the sparks of hot metal it leaves
when it crosses my mind.

When I say “I never want to see you again”

It is only because I am so embarrassed
by your appearance in my recent past
that if you were to:

fall into a hole,

float out to sea,

or disappear into your own puckered ****

I would breathe a sigh of relief.

So, yes- I miss the way your skin smelled;
like your bed, sweet and sour.
but there are beds
with more loveable personalities
than you.

Days are heavy, thick, and physical.
objects exist and separate,
matter builds then breaks apart,
and I am trapped, in this tight skin
to do the same.

Night is transparent, loose enough
to hold you black, and white,
and body-less, boundless
connected
with unwavering hands.

I ache to keep these moments here
but all things die,
we let go.

I wake to feel the weight
of sun on eyelids,
skin on muscle,
pulse on bone;
the grinding scrape of thought
against thought.

So I lay back down,
count the drops from the leaking faucet,
until the night again.

Sit very still.

I will come, if I’m willing.
And I am.

Words build up
like hairs in my mouth. Lines that wind, and stick
I try to speak,
but they will knot
and compliments come out as hacks and coughs,
not the purrs I had imagined.

I am not graceful, I do not always land on my feet.

I try to leave you presents,
things I find, things you might enjoy.
but I’m met with confused faces, tinged with distaste,
when my attempts fall dead and blood stained.

Do not touch me.

I am embarrassed by my lack of opposable thumbs, my hairy coat.
I have teeth and claws;
and I will use them in abundance.

I am cute, but not substantial, nothing heavy enough to lean on,
just heavy enough to weigh you down.

I run;
behind the couch, under the bed,
watching safely in a dark closet.
please,
Do not touch me.

I have been born in this skin,
and have loved it wholeheartedly.
I've watched it grow, and play,
nurturing it, neglecting it. I know
my shaking knees do not smile,
the sweat on my palms do not taste sweet.

I know the sent of my body; every follicle
of hair which grows wild,
soft and familiar, like the forests of home.
I love the wrinkles, and dimples,
the great mass of my flesh.
My fingers play across it
as a child would trace her fingers over
the body of a lake, or the frost
on windows during a cool morning.

I speak in tongues, in dreams, and images
that no other could hope to know.
I walk my mind in summer afternoons,
and nights on a lonely beaches.

I imagine,
ugly and silly,
stupid and witty,
wonderful, fanciful,
and frightening blurrs;
and they are all beautiful,
and they are all my own.

I love myself, even when I am unfair
even when I am wrong, and selfish, and angry.
Even when I wish to rip at myself
until I’m a harmless mass
of calcium and iron.
Even when I heave under the scale of things
so much larger than this, so much darker and older
and deeper than this,
there is a voice in my heart that says:

no.

You are a daughter of dying stars

and You are stronger than the trees you love

and You are not perfect

and I love You.

and I forgive You.

my shaking knees do not smile,
the sweat on my palms do not taste sweet.

So tell me stranger,
what do you know of loving me?