Tired Talk

I admit, that one night,
part of me liked seeing him
cry.

Fallen at the feet of some escaped beauty
that I wrote in a notebook
a long time
ago.

I let him leap out the room
misty red, barely read
but already knowing...

I let the days grow thicker
answered the questions in my own head
but didn't forget
all the drunken things he'd said.

Just a boy on a string
god, how can I
be so mean?

But it's not, it's not
my fault
he's so flawed.

He's just another set of lips that
deny love
“I'd love to be alone...”
but we're not kidding anyone.

If he wanted this
he'd have to miss
me more in the long run.

We waited with arms crossed
and cross talk
“You just love arguing.”

But really
I think he just loved
me.

Free Write

At night you still come to me, but not like before. You break into my head wearing a masks but I recognize your clothes. I recognize your clothes because they're my clothes. They are my clothes you refused to return to me, ill fitting and awkward. Too loose around the hips, too short and your ankles are left open, white socks in my face. White socks. God, you know how much I hate white socks, always dingy and greying, always brown spot stained and loose.
The mask comes off and I know its real – there it is, your face, your pair of lips, all sugar and bite and bile. And I wish that I could hate your face, your tongue – for a moment I do. I scream and curse you and tell you to get the fuck out of here, get the fuck out of my world, my head, my home or land or country or wherever it is I'm floating through today.
And you do. You run. You run fast but I catch you. I want to cut out your throat so you never lie again. I want to cut off your arms so you never wrap yourself around a woman and tell her everything is going to be all right – at least, never again. The biggest part of me that hates you is the part of me that longs for you, long like you, skinny and lean and taut and young and tall.
I catch you but now I can't remember why I was chasing you in the first place. To spit your face? To curse you a few decibels louder? I don't know. You've got your nose to the ground and we're arguing. You're telling me I kept your nose to the ground. “Do you know what its like to walk around like this?”
And maybe that's my biggest fear – that you blame me. That you think its my fault that I'm caterwauling crazy now, that I'm some sick succubus like the girl in that movie we saw in the theater last fall. Am I? Am I sick?
Get out, I say, again. And it's like this these days. I want to think about anything but you, want to know anyone else but you, but when its midnight and there's a pair of jeans pressed up against me all I can think about is your skin and how electric its always been. You were always so warm in my hands, carved and stretched to my exact specifications, it seemed.
“What good are you now?” I say. “You can't even wear your own clothes. Its pathetic.” But you aren't listening. Like so many days I'm here again, droning on and you're barely nodding, barely thinking, just all hollow and still. I climb on top of you and scream in your face, as if loudness could do the trick.
That's when I realize it – my position is weak. I can't be hear, can't be doing this. I'm trying to force you to listen but all I can feel is your skin on my skin. Fuck. It's still electric, still humming, still begging at me. I still know every curve and line and motion. “This isn't what it seems,” I don't want it. I don't want you. I fight it with every inch of my bones.
But you come back at me. I've pinned you down but its really you that's on top. You see me slipping, like soap out of grimy hands, like an earthworm off a hook into a clever fish's mouth.
You move, but only in the best-worst way, as I scream no, we can't do this, I can't do this, not again, not after everything. I can't want you anymore. I can't want you anymore.
But I do, and I wake up ashamed.

As yet untitled

God, you know I really barely ever write when I'm drunk. Oh well, here goes.



Baby, I wanna kiss you and
roll around on your floor
whisky-drunk

I wanna rip your name out of the
phone book and walk across
your chest

I wanna walk uneasy when you're
in the room and shiver a little
when you speak

I wanna scream at you while I'm all
wrinkled up and strung out
and say sorry in the morning

I wanna be the one that
smiles when you walk in the door and
cries when you leave

But you just wanna whisper
half-hearted, quarter-hearted sweet nothings
into my hair

You just wanna feel the
smooth, the silicone and fake
artificial love

Newest work in progress

I didn't start the fire.

I remember the first time I saw your hands shake
shake like mine, just like mine
as you held the stump of a cigarette
and tried to smile, just tried to smile.

We walked home together that night
but first we walked for miles
and your face looked like lightning
or fire, bright burning fire.

There was no wine on your breathe those days
no whiskey in your walk, just a hint of
tabasco on your tongue,
twist in your talk.

But it all exploded, like a lime burst
in your gin and tonic,
a cinnamon flame
spicing rum.

You used to hold my hand the way you hold
that pint glass,
firm and sure
this is what you want.

And I stuck to you like honey,
thick and sweet and heavy,
not fast and liquid, like whatever's at the bottom
of so many bottles.

You let me crystallize, crystal eyes
crystal like wine glasses,
broken at the bottom of the staircase,
broken at the edge of your mouth.

The house is in flames now, burnt down
by the fire in your mouth, the heat living
on your tongue.