at least
in the end,
you were polite
about it.*

your hand
rests gently
on the back of my neck,
nails rough and worn
as you trace your way
down the length of my spine,
turning each ****
with a definite crack and caress
until you reach the curves
of my hips
and dig in.
sorry. *i'm sorry. i'm sorry.
i'm sorry. *
my name, something other
than a curse, the words
just hovering
between the space of your lips
as one of us, i'm not sure who,
starts to cry.
we are left with
your hand on my heart,
knife on my gullet,
lips pressed softly to my cheek
in prayer
as you apologize once more,
and the moment
where everything pauses

and i brace myself
for the impact.

there was the word,
black upon the edge of my tongue
and sweet to the point,
as if by speaking i could remedy
the extent of the problem,
lick the salt from the wound of the page,
sallow
or spit the ***** out, feel your fingers
hooked in the hair at the back of my neck
as i allow poetry
to tilt me back until i reach breaking point,
just far enough so i can see your eyes.
for there is nothing quite as pure
as this, the pinch and
the slide, the grab and the slap, the
break and the crunch of the moment
between my teeth as i recite
each line of this moment, the sounds
of the corners of my bones as they fuse together
at the base of my spine,
the soft whisper of a bite
along the shadow of my neck as i arch
to allow you easy, easy access.
i am still listening, and whispering,
and reciting the lines of this love
as i go over
the edge.

and i wonder how i got to here.

smile. whether for me, or him or anyone else
in particular, i don't know anymore.
not now.
and i do not question it.
because regardless of whether or not i like it,
this city is beautiful,
the shallow curve of the mountains
in the distance as the traffic spans
the boulevards beside me.
for i inhabit (this) now,
and my body moves, one foot
after another, the stretch and the pull
of my muscles in the morning,
the curve of my stomach as my hands
wrap around the width of my hips
in photos, and the mirror
and the odd moments where i am simply
aware of just being.

i have barely begun to explore the start
of my arrival (at the spaces between my ribs,
the line from my neck to the top
of my shoulders, the curve of my jaw,
the crease of my eyelids while i smile,
hands on my hips, body curving over
in laughter while i dig my fingers
into my belt loops in an attempt to stay steady).
and in the end,
i am happy regardless
of how i got here.

bit by bit

even
beneath the grasp of your hand
against my neck        the pull
of my hair against my scalp
and the burning gasp
that is wrenched
from the confines of my throat
i will build it
bit by bit
stick by stick
pebble by pebble
and bone by bone
this city        paradise
stretched along the length of my back
a river flowing between
the blades of my shoulders
white fog along the edge
of my skin        blue
and purple flowers blooming
deep within the spaces
of my ribs
while the red crunch of autumn
dries clean and crusted
between my lips

and in the end
this is perfect        regardless
of your absence i
am still building
and growing and
constructing and colonizing
and reclaiming the land
you took
away from me

bit by bit
i'll pave over
the remainders
of your presence

one.
two.
three.
four. i am still breathing.
tonight and every night,
your fingers in my hair as you **** me. hard.
almost to the point where i wish
for no mercy. one.
two. three.
four. five. six.
it's at the point where i no longer question it,
though i am often surprised
by the popular opinion,
for the internet is a bad place to be
when i have questions.
i have been told i should be choking, i should not
enjoy this, there should be no enactment
of agency to be found
within this moment.
one. two. three. four.
five. six.
seven. eight. nine.
ten. and each time i do this
i do not want
to apologize, not for the gasp
that escapes my lips as you bite me,
the grip of your fingers around my wrists,
the whole of your weight against me
as you pin me to the bed, or even
the frantic motion in which i move to kiss you.

for there is no point in questioning
the logic of how my lungs and body
breathe together in this natural state
of being.

and in the end
i don't know why
but all i feel like
is crying

just enough to ***** open
the length of my pelvis
grip my fingers deep
into the give of my blankets
while i bury my head into my pillow
as to not allow myself
the temptation of screaming
in attempt to remedy
the situation
before i shatter apart
in the emptiness of tonight

i do not know what is wrong
how to tell you this or
even just to ask for you to hold me
tightly on your arms
until the confusion ends
or i finally start crying
whichever comes first

you
set me on fire.
like a love poem
along the edges of the page
as the flame burns brighter
and brighter
until there is nothing left
but ashes.

and this is different.
or not.
****.
you should push me,
grab me, bite me,
break me, pry me
open along the bed,
kiss me, stroke me,
hold me
together,
still. i keep expecting
something, as if the world
should have shattered,
i should have cried,
whether from complication,
fear or embarrassment, i am not sure.
yet this is normal, almost,
for i am still faintly left
with the rocking sensation
of your inhabitance of my body,
the beat of my heart in knowledge
of the act, the churn of my mind
in remembrance.
****.
you should push me,
grab me, bite me,
break me, pry me
open along the bed,
kiss me, stroke me,
hold me
together,
still.
for i do not feel to have lost
myself yet.

part three*

you tell me
you love me
and i wish to stop breathing
curl my body forward into yours
clutch my fingers
against your shoulders
breath your scent in
and almost will myself to cry
as i am overcome

i hope you know how
happy you make me

the real question is
whether or not i will make you immortal*
as i press my lips to the curve
of your cheek on the page,
feel your fingers gently grasp
around my wrist in a light grip
and sigh.
because this is such a slow moment
in time, stretched out along
the length of my bed
in the soft darkness of the night,
my body wrapped tightly in yours
as the two of us drift off
into sleep.
i do not know any other way
to love people,
but to write the lines
of your body clear across the page,
slowly claw the desire
of what you do to me
along the edge of my skin
as i shudder,
shiver and then collapse forward
into the memory of your arms.
and in doing so, i used to wonder
what you
and other people think of this,
because i will not regret it
in the end,
for this moment existed once
in this type of love,
carved out against the thudding
beat of my heart
as i slowly try to climb
into you, elicit
a smile and a laugh, trace
my fingers through your beard
and eventually fall asleep with
my head on your shoulder
and your arm around my waist.
for we'll exist,
immortal,
as love letters on this page together
long, long after these moments
are over.

you
rivet me, ***** me
tightly down, bolts snapping,
wire stretched
thin
along the slow, grinding gears
of my body.
but
i do not understand
why, for i have done
everything
you wanted, have become
anything you wanted
me to be. i
have practiced,
observed, studied the tilt
of her head
when she laughs,
how she blinks her eyes
before answering
any question you've
asked her.
and i
am nothing short
of perfection in
my replication,
down to the tiniest details
that you've never consciously noticed
to her nails, her hair, her lips,
the colour of her eyes as she laughs.
for this is why i
am here,
to please, excite,
follow your orders.
i am built to serve,
accept and follow you,
give you pleasure
and predict your every move,
i am yours to do with
what you wish,
for i am
the machine and you
are my master.
but this time
i cannot
understand why,
you are not pleased
with the results of
my actions.
so please, before
you lower the axe,
this time
for the final blow,
will you tell me please,
why you are crying.

part two*

i told you
i love you (i love you)
quickly without breath
in my memories
of the embellishment
of the act
and the tug of the words
from my lips
in one go
almost to the point where
i wondered if
i'd just thrown
my confession away
i told you
i love you (i love you)
"really?" you asked
really, truly
actually,
probably by now
for long enough that
i am no longer fighting it
and this will only
grow from here
i told you
i love you (i love you)
and you asked for time
but i knew that
before i decided to speak
i knew that as i
opened my mouth
i knew that as
i watched your face
in response and
it's ok
i'll give it to you
willingly

for i see no reason why
we won't get there
in the end

i'd love to write you
love poems
in some essence of the moment
a sliver of remembrance across the page
in hopes that maybe you will
understand
possibly allow both of us to cry
by the time we reach
the last line

(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)

i want to write you
love poems
in an effort to tell you
the things i have stopped questioning
what i am compelled to do
kiss you softly
link your fingers through mine
and roll over beneath the darkness
in my bed together

(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)

i'm going to write you
love poems
so i can give you everything
the beat of the moment
all of this laughter
the press of your hand to my heart
those smiles in the corner of the day
when i am happy
or everything is just full
on the level of complete
satisfaction

(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)
(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)

so smile
kiss me
but more importantly
i just need you
to be
here

part one*

i was going to write
you a confession
to tell you
i love you (i love you)
probably filled with words about
the way you make me feel
written like all other poems
and all other loves
shared by
other people
so generic that in the end
i couldn't
i was going to write
you a love poem
in confession
about it all
and i can't
not sure why
or how or when
but this relationship is now
everything
not in a creepy or
desperate manner
but in a fashion that it's
slightly too large
to kiss open across the page
in a way that makes
any sense at all
i was going to write
you a confession
to tell you
i love you (i love you)
but instead
wrote one
on why i couldn't

you'll just have to
make do with this

why is it now
though i think i knew
understood it in the end
the pull of this
force by something other
than magic
that maybe i can heal it over
by the press of her hips to mine
the tangle of her fingers
in my hair
and the tug as she pulls
me to her
fingers locked to the collar
of my shirt
as she takes me down
out
across the sheets
and in the end
this is fantasy
smoke along the shallow curve
of my back
the trace of my gaze
up her legs until
i reach her *******
and look away

funny though
for by the end of it
i had to unpack it all
trace my face in the mirror
and dig deep enough
the squeeze the valve
of my heart open
and push all the blood
out across the floor
because

i am sleeping
with him
his teeth a bite along
the edge of my skin
his fingers digging into my hips
my arms clinging to him
as i whisper (i love you,
i love you, i
love you) in an attempt
to spread this truth
out along the axis of
my heart

and i'm still watching her

as if there could be
those lines
something along the wave
of the water
the curve of my bones
a shallow scrape against the palm
of my hand
as i reach in against the mirror
to kiss the cool of the glass
while the panic
subsides

i am still waiting
for something
and it is unknown whether i
will be capable of feeling it
when i do
whether the moment
when i finally come undone
nails locked along the length
of my arms
teeth through the pad of my lip
something about my body
tense with an ache
the absence of control
whether it
will be worth it in the end

i say i should
be writing
i say i should
be able to handle it
i say

that this
is eventually sometimes not
worth it
whether in the end
i can hold my body steady
that i can piece it together
lick the blood slowly
from the base of my skull
and pry the muscles apart
pry everything apart
until it no longer hurts

for this
is hopefully now
nearly over

somebody told me there
was the dark
something black upon the lines
a shadow in the light
of the skin
hovering
just below the tip of my tongue
as you lean in to kiss me

i ask you to hit me
and you oblige
press the pads of your fingers
into the curve of my hips
and pull

though i do not know how to write this
the desire
the black
the ache
the tender feeling as you kiss me gently
on the forehead
run your fingers through my hair
before you grab tight and pull me down
with barely enough time to moan
or gasp in pleasure

for it's a complicated sort of thing

i am writing
as if this **** is art
something broken within the wine
a voice upon the wind
and the red ink upon my paper
this is eventually all the same
the voice and the silence
the pain and the ache
the anger and the crying
until i am left with nothing to write about

for these are the moments
when i learn willingly
to hate the poems
i seem to be only capable
of writing

for i am still going
and writing and laughing
in circles
no closer to any answer at all