I hope to sit with you one day,
in a content sort of way.
Sometimes thing are okay and sometimes they’re not,
But I’d love to have you as a constant, even though you can’t be constant,
Because one day, after you’ve become my constant, my comfort, you’ll die, or I will,
And the other will be left in a constant state of grief and loss, which will in some way ease but never go.
This is the first thing that comes to mind:
that time when an “important” someone said I wasn’t pretty in not so many words.
This is the second thing that comes to mind:
the things I write are, so often, a sapping showcase of my vulnerability.
This the the third thing that comes to mind:
my poor little dead bird in the soil.
This is the forth:
I cried so much over that dead bird, harder than I’ve cried in years, so hard that I hurt my throat, that my mother said she hasn’t heard me cry that hard since the first time my heart was broken when I was 18 and still a girl.
tongue in my mouth that isn’t mine, speak me there with unworded love,
say what you think of me silent, with your lips pressed on my body
say what you think of me, with your mouth full of my flesh
Inside of mouth silks in fluid slow motion
stop selling me love i’ll never have
i don’t want to walk on high beams over cities
or beam in a convertible with carefree plastered on my mouth
I fill my heart with unstoic, dispirited silence,
When I am fraught, your image flaunts itself, shows me the love I cannot see.
Even though I know I shouldn’t be aspiring to this – which I’m not-
it would be so much easier to stumble through life, knowing that I could come home and fuck you.
Just to take your hand in the supermarket, or the bar, or at a bus stop and let your presence lift me up.
Feel the plunging realness of love in different circumstances.