Has this been the hurt inside of you
these cuts on my hands
the crush of broken promises.
Your static mouth a shrieking fog
buzzing in my head, humming –
you like grains of sand
scratching a desert
in my throat.
Remember me a grapefruit moon
hanging in your rear view mirror
love in the back seat
melon. sunset. smoke.
took a back seat.
Now the morning rolls down her sheets
silicone heat waves sweat across my tongue.
I listen for you but all that moves nails along the wall
are reflections of an empty afternoon.
(my arms reach
for three corners from this corner)
The windows are swallowing sunlight
the sunlight is dangling through trees
traces of a dim lit landscape
you used to speak of
I hope you didn’t come here for me. I’d like to kiss you thick like rich honey just to rip the sky like thunder from your chest. I am not the one you pray for, not the one who holds your breath between her legs and falls like rain. I have been here since the birth of a time forgotten, holding my hands in my hands and my tongue in my teeth. A soft succulent pool held at the tips of knives. When I move I move away, when I touch the warmth within me flares and then disintegrates. When the storms approach, the silence and the atmosphere grow heavy as vines. The blackbirds fly disoriented but they fly in clumps all together, wings beating stark up against wings.
I hope you didn’t think I was some kind of supernatural creature who keeps watch in the night, who chases monsters from underneath the bed. I can only navigate when I navigate blindness, feeling the walls along the edges of your insecurities helps push me against my own. We don’t know how to perceive sadness until we know how it tastes on the bloodied lips of a love who left every kind of offering at our feet. Until we swell with a desire so crippling it claws in our bellies as we crawl naked in the street. These are the little necks, these are the little stems, these are the undressings which weep for eternity inside the soul. We cannot always be light or darkness. Sometimes we are satellites made of eyes orbiting both. Sometimes we have to lose our minds, sever the ties between the nightmare and the scream.
His dark eyes took hold of the neck
drank full the body for his pleasure:
Little midnight flower, how you wear patience
like the folded lace hands of time
melting between two trembling thighs.
My sapphire beauty, fingering the walls
of a deviant mind.
His fingers sunk pale hooks
upon the alabaster jaw:
study me with those wet eyes, angel.
Be still and I will teach you
all that cruel body aches
I know you are not listening.
I know there is a voice which speaks to you
and you hold its neck beneath the
choke the truth
that’s choking you.
You are silent, thrumming in stoic madness
to keep it hush.
It is silent
but the truth is a disease with no breath
carried along on the scarred back of eternal breeding.
It has no heart for beating
or not beating,
shadowboxing with the pulse of
a faceless time of day,
swing and a miss
and miss, miss, miss.
What you fight is what is biting
you, the Mistress and her missing fingers and
her broken window teeth.
She is there despite you
in you because of what you are
and the howl in your stomach is filling
itself as you swallow its tongue
cursed hunger without permission
filling itself with rage.
Tell me about the dance. How you have drawn chalk lines on the floors but all they ever did was spin in circles and trample one another’s feet. Spread your hands all over me and let me feel the chill of the voices. How has it been to see in the clouds what has become of the poets, the way people panic now behind a cross of stones. Ever since your song has been laid to rest they all pretend they have forgotten how to sing. Perhaps it makes it easier to imagine you are not here.
But I still sing as I tap sticks along the fences in my mind (funny how darkness looks in upon itself and names it ‘other’). The quiet of some days is just too much.
Your legs above the earth are as strange as your heart sunk below. Do the hills rise into the sky for you? If you can find the secrets in your wounds to open up to me, I will tell them everything you need them to know. This splintered curtain of spectacular glass across your face still cuts me. Why is it I cannot stop peeling my own when I think of you? I had almost forgotten the way the sunlight fades through in diamond-shaped slivers. When you speak I still listen for you, I’m sure it’s then you deepen the rasp in your voice. I would have done anything for the way you wore that sound.
Your ebony rose gardens have overgrown my ivory body. I suck on the rustblood of their succulent thorns, their petals crush as softly as summer midnight lakes filling the holes in my sadness. Everything about you was soil they neglected. Everything you left was torment I can’t believe they buried.
I do not sleep but have been forced to wander dreams. We meet; we separate.
They could not understand you, that is what I understood about you most. You, the angel in my murderous hour, remind me what love with iron claws is like on fire flaring up inside my wrists. Speak for me the terrors they tear open the ground to exhume. It has been so long since this kind of glow remembered a creature as faint as me. When I think of the dance I think of us. When I think of the end I pray it traces away the waif I have become.
While they count syllables you have moved on, you begin to dictate the waves along the shore. While they grow tired and I grow distant I sense you at my heels, you at my tableside, you shadow of my shadow, you purgatory’s music of peculiar beat.
They read my words and think they are mine but there is no way that can be true. I don’t think like this. I don’t sound or fit together like this. This is not me, this is me trying to get to me. Can you not see that? That every time I approach the writing the writing throws me up against the concrete. These words do not want to give themselves to me.
This is why I am gentle. This is why I approach with folded hands, skinned knees, hollow bones. What I seek is unhinged around a dark corner which moves away when I get close. I search for cracks in the ceiling skin, faces in the mirror. I count out loud for the way thunder forces open the fists of the rain. I taste the tremble in your fingers as they spill wet heat upon my legs. There is no mystery in doing the work and yet the scratching underneath the surface is everywhere. I once heard a wise man say that a writer just observes what other people don’t take the time to notice. Maybe that is even closer to the truth than we would dare admit.
The way we salivate over satin flesh and annihilation. The way we don’t notice anything anymore. We don’t feel the earth sliding off the edge of the precipice, the fire in the sickness coughing up the back of your throat. The way you turn away from me without moving a muscle as the red evening stiffens in the center of my cemetery chest. We pack our eyes with mud instead of drinking one another.
And so my eyes do their best to become the words you need. I let the secrets in my body scream. Here are the break-away walls of my life, it seems. My small heart beats. My instrument.