There's a knot in your throat, but it's not so bad.
You used to tremble into the night, sleep,
The sunlight tore you out of your dreams.
You'd wake, and say:
"Is it over yet? Did I wake up?"

"Is it still there?
It's still there."

You used to think
maybe the fear turned you into a piece of art;
maybe laughing for 2 hours made you art.
It didn't make you art.
There aren't any museums around here.

Day-long anxiety attacks,
months, years,
you still don't feel where you are
and talking about it hurts too much.
Let's
stop
talking about it
for now.

When all becomes heavy, and you’ve made yourself so small that your pleas are like the voice of a mouse, remember: The sword must go through the heart, and you are to relish in this sweet ache, forever and ever, and that is a kind of survival. And when all is still heavy, and your pain is not the kind that will set you free, do not shun the hand of your loved one. For there is a kind of heart that can only be held with two hands. Both of them cannot be your own.

"Oh Charles, Oh dear friend... what shall I do? She is somewhere far and I can't reach her hand. I can't tell her with my mouth the things I need to say. Only though letters- through ink and paper can I say anything at all. And I'm no good with words, Charles! Why, I- I'm only an animal, a dog who will lick you and look at you with those full moon eyes to tell you that it loves you, and, and I can't take it anymore, Charles. I miss her. Oh I shall go mad if this continues!"

"I thought the wait would make you king, Laurence? What's changed?"

"..."

"Why don't you tell her?"
"Tell her. Tell her what?"
"Tell her the way you feel."
"My dear Charles. It... it isn't yet time. I've barely spoken a word to her. She’d think me truly mad then!— if I were to tell her about my childish yearning.
She's been ill, you know. Away, being taken care of by those blessed enough to know her. And me, I'm nothing to her yet; I am ******, too young and dry still, without the waters of her baptism. Oh if only she were near..."

"You'd fumble about and tip the tub with all its water, you would!"
"Oh hush..! At least then she'd see me. In all my fumbling and stuttering, Charles. She would see me."

"That she would, dear friend. That she would."

Angel, you’ve got me crawlin’, beggin’.
Throw me your crumbs, I’m a dog at your feet.
And I’ll howl when you leave, that sweet song o’ lone.

And she doesn’t know it.
She doesn’t know it.

But when you talk, I listen for the lick o’ your lips, the pause when you swallow.
And it’s so good, baby; the wait to know you, the wait to show you, the marks I’d love to leave you.
I’ll sit n’ wait. Sit n’ wait.
Sit, lie down, roll over.
When you walked away, you pulled my chain too.
When you walk away, you pull my heart with you.

Woof, baby. I’m nothin’ but the dog at your doorstep.
Drenched and hungry. Say somethin’ for me.
N’ my ears’ll perk up, and you’ll see my tail wag.
This dog’s got tooth, but honey, his heart’s trained for you.

You’ve got me crawlin’.
And when you leave, I’ll howl to you, that sweet song o’ lone.
Because she doesn’t know it, but she’s got me with hearts in my eyes,
and tongue lolling out my mouth.
All I am’s just dog, beggin’,

and I’d never known that trick before you.



-

You held my hand. Touched it, caressed it.
Mindlessly, I let myself be felt by you.
Secretly, somewhere in my heart I was dancing.
I woke again, like I had before.
From closeness of you. From a dream.
From tenderness.

The room is dimly lit, shades of blue caress the sheets. It's a late summer night, the full moon blows kisses into your room through the glass window.
The AC hums quietly- white noise swimming into you. The perfect lullaby.
You groan from under the bed sheets, annoyed. 

You can't sleep.

Rising like a groaning zombie would from his grave, sitting upright, you stare ahead, not really seeing. Staying up so late the night before might not have been a very good idea after all. Not only did the movie you and your friend decided to watch end up being unbearably boring, the conversation responsible for keeping you both up 'till four doesn't seem to exist in your memories. Ugh, what a waste.

You blink a few times; a quick glance at the digital clock next to your bed indicates it's... late. No surprise there. The numbers glow electric blue.

4:08

You don't remember the last time you were awake in your bed like this, at such an unholy hour; you have a vague memory of feeling particularly restless one night and considering getting a midnight snack. God knows what you decided to eat, whatever it was is too far back in your memories now, even if you remember clearly what happened moments before.
Such is life- the little things often forgotten, even if they are the key to happiness.
Now's not the time to begin pondering such things, though.
It's admittedly hard to anyways, you're quite distracted.

You didn't notice it then- that sleepless night- but the moonlight slipping in from outside your window is illuminating the room- just enough- to see the bed clearly, and what's happening on it.
The numbers' blue light is painting waves into the creases of the sheets.
Empty, white ocean in the night, velvety smooth stroking your legs through the cloth.
You move your them for a moment, slowly, finding yourself amused by the effects of the lighting. A lazy, sleepy smile decorates your face
along with the faintest chuckle.

"Thomas..."

You don't know it, but you're nearly half asleep.
The thoughts cup your cheek, turning into dreams the more they whisper. You lean into their touch, laying back down, your hair decorating the pillow.
Brush strokes on a white canvas.

To your right, six feet away from the bed, there is a window. You like using a thin bed sheet as a curtain sometimes- it's thin enough to let the perfect amount of sunlight through in the mornings. Ever since the day you discovered waking up to the warmth of the sun was a lot like waking next to a lover, you can't help but find it romantic. Even if it is cheesy; it's become a habit now, and you're only a little embarrassed about your fiery crush.
But really, who could blame you? It's nothing short of amazing-
sun ray kisses warming your back, distilled light breathing up your arms, sun-lit lips just barely grazing your skin... audible sighs tickling your neck, warm hands caressing your shoulders in silent pleas for attention. Mm, that's a different lover now, isn't it?

"Wake up, Guillaume. I miss you, please kiss me..."

Ah, you remember now.
Milk and honey. That's what you had that night. It was hot, liquid-thin on your tongue but thick in it's taste.
(It's odd, now that you think about it- if there's anything you'll drink before going to sleep, it's wine. What happened? What made you crave warmth and sugar- like a child- of all things? You can't remember.)
You started taking small sips of it, eventually becoming impatient, feeling that if you took too long, you would become restless again.
You downed the last of it- an even, smooth flow burning your throat (you sigh at the memory of the feeling, it was very satisfying at the time), the milk becoming sweeter and sweeter as your nose peeked further into the mug.

Sleepy dragon's breath, hot and sweet on your nose.

You added too much honey, you recall. It piled at the bottom and you sipped the last of it, feeling- just barely- its weight on your upper lip.
Rose kiss on cupid's bow.
"Please, open..." it would beg, if it could.
You did, but only a little of it was allowed to reach your tongue.
Too sweet.

"Nnh.."

How silly you would look to him now; whining like a petulant child at the thought of your warm milk having too much honey. "Relax, it's only a memory." he would say, petting your hair and smiling down at half-dreaming you, your head on his lap.

Your eyes are closed now.
You think about the too-sweet honey, the sunlight and the ocean all at once. You feel them; a flurry of taste, touch, of memories. Silver smile.

Drifting, ocean-blue eyes disappearing behind curtains that fall
like pebbles underwater, falling slowly on beds of sand. Landing without a sound.
You're seconds away from sleep, the image of waking next to your bright, fiery lover making you speak.


"Good morning... Thomas..."


Goodnight, Guillaume.

Your peace must be achieved not through violence but with it, Alongside it. Wield your violence without fear of its power. Love must know pain. Rebellion must know blood. Peace must know violence. You have nothing to fear when kindness sings behind your battle cry.

My eyes are closed. Time creases between my fingertips.
Do not come looking for me.

I don't want to be found.
I don't want to exist,
not now.

When I am finished,
when the stars return to my eyes,
when I call your name, breathless with the effort of disappearing,
then you may come.

You may hold me.

You know death when it touches you. It's a ghost that's been hunting you for years. Some months ago it finally found you and it breathed a sigh of relief. So elusive and mysterious a thing to it you were.
To it's utter dismay, upon finding you it discovered that taking you meant being faced with its first nightmare in a very, very long time.

You will not die.
Like absolute divine royalty, like hellish blood-dripping woman, you refuse Death.

I saw it happen once. You looked down your leg, an immortal Lion, long mane flowing in midnight wind, your silent rage greater than God's own.
And there it was, a ghost with its pride weakened, its body strewn hopelessly at your feet. Its hand on your thigh, pleading.
Death begs to take you now. You've crushed its dignity so.
You only stare it down, the glint of your fang scaring it into submission once more. It loosens its grasp on you, and when its hand falls, so too does its vacant eyes. Death stares at the cracks on the floor.

And you?
You are Lucifer victorious, standing with his foot on the defiled corpse of God.

I'm so sorry,
but my self control
is breaking
under the weight of your body.

Strands of black brush my neck
and I hear my pulse threatening to **** me.

My hands travel your waist,
your lower back,
you're killing me.

The light grows dim
and my surroundings dark.
Your scent is intoxicating.

My breath
coils
around my voice
and my lips part,
my tongue slithers,
I taste your neck.

I'm drowning in ecstasy now,
digging deep,

I don't trust my hands anymore.
I don't trust my thoughts anymore.
I can't trust myself anymore.

I'm crawling inside of you.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I can't stop.
My hands grip your throat.
My breath cuts the space between us.
My pulse quickens.
I want to hurt you.
Baby, I'm throbbing.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I can't stop.
I can't stop.

You are
poison

and I'm swallowing you.

I’ve written nothing.
I’ve stood at the mouth of me
and listened and listened;

when I look,
I find
the sharpest truths are still
   in my mouth
nestled under my tongue
and I am restless
and I am numb
and don’t ever let them tell you
that emotions can be contained.
   They are like water
that eats through cave walls,
that drowns the richest of kings,
the palest of boys,
the most fearsome of beasts

   and little girls
with Pocahontas hair
          and don’t-hurt-me eyes.

I stand at the mouth of me
and listen
and listen.
I hear my own language- the consonants blurred,
the “I” so holy, holy, holy
yet small, caged, shivering,
  a bull in a cereal box.
Only the vowels have survived.

I hear me, the writhing language of pain,
and I scream
and plead
and beg to be.

I stand at the mouth of me.
I'm afraid to jump.

Nothing.

I’ve written nothing.

The pain
in my neck is
unbearable.

You hid my medicine,
my comfort.
I can't
find anything.

All so you could
play-bite my skin
and hear me yelp

each time you
pushed your tongue
on my
bruises.

She told me, “I think you think this”
and I said, “I don’t.”
and then I said, “I know why I thought that.”
and I thought, “I only said I thought that because I knew she thought I did.”
I thought, “I did my best to never let myself think that.”
I thought, “I’m not interested in thinking about this anymore. I’m tired. I’m just so scared of this. Always so scared.”
I thought, “I’ve done what I understood was expected of me in order to be loved. It used to be the only way I could communicate with others.”
I thought, “I want nothing more than the thrill of experiencing myself.
I thought, “I want nothing more than to be as genuine as I can be. I wish I could fix it now. I wish I could give myself to people. I wish I could be bare today.
“But I think,” I thought, “I think that will have to wait.”

God lied. Women were born from the earth.
Crawled from the sea. Risen from your lake in the wood.
They were made from the dead fires of earth; formed from the ash,
Running, Screaming towards God their name.

It was man who came second.

It was man who was God’s afterthought,
pulled from the side of the almighty Woman.

Honey's what you are! Golden eyed creature, sweet speaking babe-- honey, and honey, lightning strikes in your veins.
But you're nature, baby!-- a sweet dollop of pain and love!
So bless me with all you are, and I'll be holy for it, for havin' a taste of that acid n' sweet.

Divine thing that never spoils, sweet babe.
Honey's what you are.


-For a stranger, for a woman.

You will be somewhere out there,
drink in hand, slightly frowning at the sound of the third string-
it's out of tune. What a terrible guitar player.
A mediocre rock band plays.
The singer isn't good.
You will sigh and wordlessly wonder if you will ever meet
a good singer,
or anyone who likes good music.
Maybe someone who enjoys the music you do.
"That's wishful thinking at best, isn't it?", you'll mutter to yourself
and take another sip
of a particularly "girly" drink. You don't care. It tastes sweet.
The lights will decorate your back; you're not facing the dance floor.
You'll glance to the side, there being nothing there to look at,
and you will decide you'll stop giving this club a chance- the music is never good enough.
It will have been the second, maybe third time you go there.

You will finish your drink
and go back home.
You will lay in bed, the sheets will be warm, the night cold.

Having gotten tired from the walk home,
you fall asleep quickly.

The universe ties us together that night
and in a club you've never been to before,
lacking mediocre rock bands,
a dj taking their place,
(a particularly good dj playing that night, he's mixing 90's french house songs)
You sit and order your sweet drink.

Ten minutes go by.


I walk in.

Tenderness is your weeping, Love is in the wetness of your cheek, I have heard you begging yourself for the forgoing of your defenses. If love is the path you reach for, your legs only need walk it. My dear, abandon hardness. Become the light love is drawn to.

Summer was so good to me. But now September’s had its hands on my throat, and I’ve closed my eyes and let my arms go limp. I don’t know how I forgot to fight. The way out is to rebel. Receive your pain, let it be known in the palace of your heart, love it, become it, and return it in deafening waves.

Today, I helped my mother with her garden. I made the earth soft, I placed the seeds carefully, I added a little bit of the nutrient-rich soil. I tried to place the seeds upright in the ground. I’ve never done this before. When I ask her how I’m doing, she says I’m doing good. She says I plant them so carefully.

My wrists and back haven’t been doing very well these past few days, but I know that if I let her, my mother will sacrifice her entire body to her flowers. She’ll offer her exposed skin to the sun and her aching joints to the earth. Her muscles will cry and the tears make the earth richer.

The doctor said she needs to rest. Her knees, the bad arm, her back.
My body hurts sometimes, but all I have to do is stretch and rest and it goes away.

I have to plant the bell pepper seeds.
I have to sacrifice my own body to the sun, to the earth and the flowers. It is a duty to the selfishness of giving. I must because I want to.

What would I do if I saw you weep again? How could I bear to see anything keep you from joy for a even a single moment?
How incredible to see you after all of the sorrow. You touch the earth, you plant the seed. Every morning I walk outside to look at the flowers with you.

And this is my dark soil. This is my water.

I wake up. I see her dutifully tending to her garden. I put on my shoes.
I am the flower blooming with the love of a mother.

My heart shook under the quivering words made slaves to your tongue.
You laugh and never explain why.
You laugh like you know secrets that cut the speeches of heroes short.
You sat and read Shakespeare.
You enjoy poetry the way villains enjoy music.
There is terror in the rhythm of your words,
the silent kind, the one you don't notice
until it's too late.

I stop to ask,
"You don't find it weird? I'm... doing this
while you're reading Shakespeare..."

"I find it romantic, really." you said, in a voice that begs to be silenced,
but crushes the one who
dares try.

I remember loving things. I remember loving the dance of leaves and their shadows. I remember loving an artist’s singing. I remember listening to the harmonies for the first time. The double voiced thing that danced with the drums and the guitars. Dancing. I remember loving dancing.

April 8 2019

Should the world come to an end
we should stand unblinking
at whatever comes.
We should stand serene, peaceful;
full of that sweet indifference
with which nature blesses us every day.

It's with a a heart both heavy with longing
and light with love, that I say:

I sincerely hope when the day comes,
I'll have a sweet babe
to hold my hand.

I don’t mean to be rude, it just comes out that way. I’m just tryin’ too hard. The moon looks full sometimes, and when I look out the window, I can’t quite see it.
I can’t quite see it.

It’s like that sometimes. There’s something beautiful. I want to reach it with words. I want the permission to hold it. But I can’t quite say it. I open my mouth, and I can’t quite say it. I’m sorry. I wish it were different.