Hey

Hey

I know we haven’t seen each other in a while
But it’s not like I miss you

It’s just that I saw the stars tonight
And they whispered to me your secrets

Sticky secrets with flimsy limbs
Grasping at my hair and hands and happiness

Like chewing gum
Smacking against your teeth

Not that I miss you, but I just want to
Climb into your skin

Suckle on your bones
Like a starving infant

Until they’re dry and cracked to dreadful dust
Leaving your awkward, unworthy flesh behind

I’d gather it up, your flesh
Folded neatly like a linen shirt — skin smoothened to neat pleats

I’d hide it in my trunk
With our forgotten dreams and all the dead things we left behind

I’d keep it
Only for a while

Only for a day
Perhaps for a night

Then I’d toss it out the window
Like a carefree little vixen

Laughing and self-loathing
What a modern woman I’d be

Lonely and occupied and cautious and free
Sometimes melancholy, sometimes a little blue

But, hey
It’s not like I miss you

A Ruminating Mind

There was a moment,
an unobtrusive speck in time,
when I created.

Weaving words from fleeting thoughts,
imagery from violent emotions,
and stories from careless whispers.

I spoke of a poignancy I never knew,
with a sense of cohesion I couldn’t begin to comprehend.
And still, I created.

A great countercurrent of fragmentary notions and quivering epiphanies,
wrenched from my heart and through my mouth by the simple want of a ruminating mind.
Simple, but essential.

No,
not essential.
Absolutely intrinsic.

A great drag of breath from the wooden gears of a clockwork mind.

It’s a sad affair, truly,
the disintegration of this kind.

giphy
via Giphy

[Featured image: Silvia Grav]

Dirty

We both sweat
like weeping candles
lit and left forgotten for hours

Our flames burn high and bright
our pores sob
in the strange tongue of desire that our mouths are too busy to speak

“You’re so dirty,” he says
his breath hot and wet at the back of my neck
his palms rough and greedy at the curve of my hip

His words drift in the thick air around us
hovering
until they reach me

I hear his voice
it echoes in the movement of my blood
settles in my bones

I want to scream

I loved him with everything I knew and everything I didn’t
love leaked out of my pores
and onto the clothes I would soon shed for him.

Because I wanted him close
close enough to feel it cracking my bones and shattering the paradigm of my thoughts cataclysmically
the way it always did

But there he stood
embracing me
while he made love to a notion fed to him by an ecclesiastical spoon known for ladling deceit

Take me from behind
take me in the earth
WHY TAKE ME AT ALL
if I’m dirty?

I loved him with abandon
almost to a fault
so despite myself
I let him paint on me his filth
make me dirty

[Featured image via: Cesar Biojo]

Tea

Thunderstorms, he said,
should be endured at home,
with a cup of tea.

Perhaps a crisp chamomile,
or a cool mint,
or an arduous green.

He smoothed his tie,
the shade of passing autumn,
as he said this.

His breath heavy with decay,
the decay of marrow and being,
his words hot and hovering, like steam.

I brewed several,
teas strong and muddy and sweet,
poured into little cups of ivory.

When they cracked,
the tea would bleed,
like the spill of desperate words on a parchment.

The scent assailing, unforgiving, and penetrating,
mixing with his breath on my skin,
punishing me.

I watched the benign liquid shapes,
as they imploded against the window,
trying to reach their kin leaking slowly down my broken cheek.

Thunderstorms, he said,
should be endured at home,
with a cup of tea.

Surfer Rosa Lover

Her sunglasses were heart-shaped and she had a heart-shaped tattoo. She often used it as a tool, an incentive for those she coveted. Not that they needed an incentive of any sort.

She was lovely. In every way fathomable. My opinion may be biased because I coveted her so. Hot, bothered and heavy with anxiety every time the lace trim of her sleeve teased my elbow.

‘What are you talking about?’ She envelopes her tongue around the piece of gum she placed on the edge of her mouth, making the mundane, meaningless, malarkey gesture seem charming. ‘Broken Face? And need I even mention Where Is My Mind? You on dope, boy? Surfer Rosa is a brilliant embodiment of the deteriorating, hedonistic society we love and hate.’

I loved this. Sometimes I think I contradicted her only to listen to her garrulousness. And garrulousness it was, I knew so even then. It wasn’t the bone-crushing, breath-stealing, brittle and blood-soaked love I much later experienced. It was an all-consuming want. It was an affliction. I knew this.

But I also knew the shape of the side of her waist where her heart-shaped tattoo played hide and seek. The hitch in her breath every now and then, the curling of hair at the back of her neck, the bead of sweat between her breasts. I knew this.

And, unabashed, unrepentant and left with unobscured memories of her breath on my lips, head on my chest, words in head, I knew that some day today, I’d call her with a payphone at the end of the street and we’d collide on the sheets like the first night we did.

She’d know I wouldn’t love her the way I loved my bone-crushing, breath-stealing, brittle and blood-soaked love and in my selfish, sun-soaked, sublime want I’d call her my lover’s name.

So, you see, it really didn’t matter whether she thought Surfer Rosa was a brilliant embodiment of the deteriorating, hedonistic society we love and hate, it didn’t matter if I knew her name, it didn’t matter if she was lovely, it didn’t matter if her sunglasses were heart-shaped and she had a heart-shaped tattoo. It didn’t matter that I was her bone-crushing, breath-stealing, brittle and blood-soaked love.

Magic

img181

Let me set the scene:

It’s loud. Loud enough that you can’t hear the clinking of ice cubes as they’re plunk plunk plunked into the glasses, bathing in the whiskey/vodka/vodka and cranberry.

And it’s crowded. Crowded enough to feel like your thoughts are being interrupted by another’s, the traffic of drunken/rushed/excited thoughts is as thick as the impenetrable queue at the bar.

There is chalk on the table. On every table. They must doodle with it during afternoon brunches, with the summer air and the corny flair of sundresses. They sit ignored now, the pieces of chalk, some are stepped upon, like discarded cigarette butts.

But,

I see them. I see some things, not everything, some things that I bet you don’t.

I say some things, that you bet I should not.

And I listen. I listen to the tap tap of your foot, the squeak of the chalk against the wood, the words that float in and out of your head– unsaid and misunderstood.

I’m a girl. Just one girl. I don’t want to wind you up and bring you down and turn your head around. I’m not that song, the song with those words.

I’m your reflection. I make you smile and make you want to be good.

There are creases on the cuffs of your shirt and chalk dust on your fingers as I take them in my hand.

The noise goes away. The chalks, the voices, the plunk plunk plunk of ice cubes into the glasses, bathing in whiskey/vodka/vodka and cranberry.

 

I smile. Smile in a way, in a voice I know you hear:

‘You say chemistry, I say magic.
Let’s not allow semantics to destroy this moment.’