When you sneeze I am suddenly aware that beside me you are having a 10th of an orgasm, and that the likely hood of you having the same thoughts about me as a stranger as I am having is high. There is intimacy in the fact that our legs are touching right now but scientifically nothing can touch. But even if that’s true electricity stills runs from lightning through a lake when it’s thundering and I’m curious as to how many sneezes it would take to feel that way.
You fuck her like your life source
is running on low
and leave her like you have somewhere to be.
You hold her like you want
to love her but
there’s another lover you need to see.
This is not a love story.
This is not a poem, or a novel, or a song. I don’t know what it is but it is none of those things.
What this is, though, is a collection. A collection of explanation, and occasionally some apologies.
Like how I am sorry that when I am with you I often can’t speak because the words in my mind don’t come out as smoothly as they are thought, and how my tongue trips over them. They are prisoners running and running and slamming hard into my teeth; getting caught. And when I kiss you I’m trying to release them and I hope that these words run through your bloodstream and that you understand and when I bite your lip I’m trying to get the residue of the vowels out of my mouth before they become to sweet and let me rot.
When you question me for how I look at you and I tell you it’s nothing, follow your gut. You know what I’m thinking. I’m sorry I lie. I can’t handle the truth. You know what I’m thinking. I’m afraid it’s too much, that it will come down like a tidal wave and we will not be strong enough breakers. I’m sorry I’m not afraid to feel but that I am afraid to speak. I’m sorry there is any fear in me at all, and if I can console any hurt let it be that I also feel safe. With you.
For every time I pick a fight, know I am picking you. For every time I am short on words, on breath, on life – understand that I sing to the fucking moon every night you are not with me hoping that one day I will make it up to you because I am not lacking in determination what I am lacking in courage.
And while the moon is encouraging others, I praise every cloud that crosses the sky because I don’t want you to see me for what I am, and I am jealous of every ray of light that gets to touch you in place I cannot, when I cannot. And it’s so sadistic that I love that you’re broken but the thing is I don’t think you’ll cut me up. Despite your warning label you’ve been an emollient to yourself and your rough edges have been smoothed out. I want to drink you up like too much of a good thing, I think that would be the best way to go.
When I wake up in the morning I don’t think about how lucky I am. I don’t think about how handsome you are or that I want to touch your hip. I think about how soft your eyes feel on mine and how this is the one thing I never dreamed of and the one thing I never want to lose.
Am I doing this right yet? I’m sure it isn’t a love story.
Twice I turned my back on you. Two times I was so blue I had to kiss the red from others lips just to understand that those two colours made the same purple of the bruises I was covered in. Twice I was a reminder that the thorns of rose petals hide in unlikely places, that they will bite your skin drawing poison to the surface making your words black. Two times I drowned you in sweet lies, had you convinced that if the surface reflected it was pure. You saw yourself and I know you’re no saint so twice I was the alarm, going off a little too late.