whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger
I don’t feel strong.
if I were the best version of myself
I’d be grateful for you
your memories arcing darkly, coldly
between these pieces I gather and fumble
and arrange in ugly patterns.
but what would I give up
to be hopeful?
to be open?
to be whole?
the frenetic dance parties
in your living room
into a heaving pile on the floor.
the late nights of
pontifications and guitar solos
weaving in between wafts of smoke
prying myself wide-open
at the bus station
my fingers digging playfully
under the gap in your pants.
cackling at your dark jokes
gasping at your bloody stories
playing “boy’s games”
just to be near you.
sometimes I get it.
the things you give up
the bits that burn, die, and fall off.
you evolve into something else.
niether better nor worse.
but what would I give to have her back?
to unbite that apple?
to gleam with possibility?
to believe in the possibility of others?
I might pry those moments out
throw them into the abyss.
I might be willing
to never have met you at all.
hungry to devour
to entangle a body’s length
dark leaks encircling
my strained portrait.
fingers for a chink in the armor.
“Do you miss me?”
her breath as sweet as death.
life is rife with it — the little anguishes the sparks of pleasure the swaths of boredom that roll in and out and over you till you close your eyes in hopes that the spinning will stop…and you weigh them ceaselessly those quickly-fleeing little pieces squirming in your fingers in hopes that the good outweighs the bad and you squint at them in hopes that the bad can be transformed if you turn it this way or that or hold it up to the light…and you try to peer ahead and arm yourself accordingly but still the slings come and still it stings…and you wonder if things will ever be better if the quips of wisdom will sink down deep and manifest themselves as action and brightness but I fear it won’t get that much better two steps forward one step back and then another
Bubbling up to the surface
a raw and bloody thing
struggling for birth and I
I have tried to ignore her
tried to preserve my moorings
tentatively balancing on idealisms
that slowly dissolve their façade
and I have been burdened by fear
and a hunger for serenity but she
has pricked at me softly steadily
growing more insistent and I teeter
back and forth from the soft warmth
a tainted numb bliss to the bright cold
shriek that promises a bolder freedom
but I don’t know if I’m ready for the
plunge the blind fall into embracelessness
and I don’t know how accurate it is this
discontentment how tainted it is by succulent
fantasies and I know that the choice is irreversible
that where I tread from there unsteady and heart pounding
he cannot follow
and the choice is selfish cold lustful guilt-ridden
brave bursting and wise
she is a dark mirror of what I must be
and I knew her my god I knew her long before her seduction
and I feel compelled to acquiesce
feel her rising
earthquaking and in spite of myself
I am becoming.
you still live there cupped in the mind’s hand
like a warm dark place I crouch in when the
hunger is too great a sweet crisp scent that
imbues me rolls down my throat into me
a sugar rush to meaning’s vacuous
withdrawal and I dwell there my body
trembles with the life of you the charming
overbite the sweet dimpled skin the soft
intellectual stomach the wit and sick rare
warmth that radiated crooked-grinned and
brown-sparkled into me and me bursting
and giggling sexless petals opening
inviting my only virtue then my sweetness
my total devotion to every morsel that
graced my thirsty lips every touch viscous
and playful every moment in that house
that smell old and musty but so deliciously
you-smelled years later Max howling on
your bed and me inhaling the scent of your
shirt regarding your pictures of manhood
estranged and desperate to have known you
to have had you taste of me ripened to have
had those last empty ashen moments (fateless
and cruel) annulled by something richer
nevertheless I am content to have your life
eternal and light-ridden pocketed safely
a sweet balm a selfish tribute to childhood’s
succulence a dark reminder to drink of others’
cups open and brave and swallowing whole