The typewriter tap is a metal rainfall,
and my hands are humid,
my hands are friction.
There’s a threat of lighting.
There’s a threat of drizzle.
I worship a Woman.
Her name is Existence, and she’s a fickle gift.
I write no Psalms just to deserve her,
only pray with every action
not to disappoint.
Tell me again how passionate I am, and I’ll tell you there’s nothing but bass.
We’ll crawl into the speakers and pretend to love each other
although we don’t, we never really wanted to.
Your tiny body next to me that early, early morning
kept me up with questions and explanations.
We’re immune to the tastes on each other’s tongues,
of beer, and tar. Of each other’s screaming voices.
Tell me another story about the girl you loved,
all her stains and steps misplaced.
In the morning, in the pouring rain,
I will walk you anywhere and I won’t hold your hand.
I’ll just pretend to be in love with you.
Although I’m not, and I never wanted to be.
I wish I could inhale you, choke on you, cough you back out again.
Wipe you away with a dirty rag from the fridge handle
or the stove handle.
Taste you again,
bitter and silently lethal.
You’ve been rattling my chest for a month now,
stuck to tender, inside-skins.
Momma always said,
quitters never win.
We tried so hard to find pieces of ourselves that were too good for one another.
I hoped, one day, you’d sing,
“I found it! I found it,
and I’ll keep it from you forever.”
Somehow, still, our conversations read like used ads;
a “hand-me-down” here, a “hardly-used” there.
If one of us found an original thought
shiny-side up under the bed, or in some dark corner,
the lightening might just strike us down -
a flash of light to fill our dusty home.
Through the door of the washing machine:
a ring around my life,
your face dead-center of a full moon.
I couldn’t stop the room from spinning as you turned me on,
finger tips twisting dials and turning knobs.
Once I was just a heap on the floor, but with you,
I was cleaned up, pressed and folded.
Hung up dripping wet and left to dry.
All I was ever told was that the best girl is a clean one,
her fabric softened to softer than soft.
You put a ring around my life.
You gave me an endless cycle of spin cycles and bruised knees.
I want you to tell me that this isn’t fair.
I do not, cannot, will not, care.
I craved for you, with fist in mouth
several weeks, with little doubt.
But then came the snow, to cover it all.
and a girl who’s fist was much more small.
There is a game we like to start
when guessing the size of someones heart:
You saw, my fists were much too big
so took her heart as your home, to live.
If the gift of good scent
was good enough
for The One Who Was Sent,
frankensense and myrrh
are good enough for her.
I woke from a dream of you, covered in sweat
and whether from fearful chase, or sex
I cannot say.
I simply wiped the beads of you away.
We have a truly hard time telling the truth,
when describing all our dreams.
But my dear love,
whats the use,
describing inaudible screams?
Bruise me, and show me all the colours that my skin can turn.
Bite me, and let the blood collect in those collarbones that you love so much.
Bones and skin can both be broken, but now, you can prove it.
Pull my hair, but forget the school yard.
Bones and skin can both be broken. I cannot.
