perfect

and this is ecstatic

the beat of your body

within mine

the rush of the blood

along the length of

my limbs

as i rock forward into

your arms

laughing

i cannot stop smiling

for everything feels

perfect now

forever

it's as if forever
could suddenly explode

and we are all liars
black along the charcoal
sweet white within
the lines of your blood
as i lean in
to kiss the red blur of your lips
but miss in a laugh
against the curve of your
cheek

some one tell me
this
will go on and on
and on and on until
the lines of each element
of my skin
become transparent
beneath the morning
light bright against the shadows
of the sheet draped
along the length of
your hips
and the scent of your hair
your face and body
mixed within mine
until i can no longer tell
when you are ending
and whether i have begun
to be able to decently
tell this story
with any accuracy

and i am still waiting
for the bomb to drop
and everything to end
each and every time
i reach in to kiss you

when i pull back
you are still smiling
though

happy

part three

you tell me

you love me

and i wish to stop breathing

curl my body forward into yours

clutch my fingers

against your shoulders

breath your scent in

and almost will myself to cry

as i am overcome

i hope you know how

happy you make me

something other

why is it now
though i think i knew
understood it in the end
the pull of this
force by something other
than magic
that maybe i can heal it over
by the press of her hips to mine
the tangle of her fingers
in my hair
and the tug as she pulls
me to her
fingers locked to the collar
of my shirt
as she takes me down
out
across the sheets
and in the end
this is fantasy
smoke along the shallow curve
of my back
the trace of my gaze
up her legs until
i reach her breasts
and look away

funny though
for by the end of it
i had to unpack it all
trace my face in the mirror
and dig deep enough
the squeeze the valve
of my heart open
and push all the blood
out across the floor
because

i am sleeping
with him
his teeth a bite along
the edge of my skin
his fingers digging into my hips
my arms clinging to him
as i whisper (i love you,
i love you, i
love you) in an attempt
to spread this truth
out along the axis of
my heart

and i'm still watching her

in the end

part two

i told you
i love you (i love you)
quickly without breath
in my memories
of the embellishment
of the act
and the tug of the words
from my lips
in one go
almost to the point where
i wondered if
i'd just thrown
my confession away
i told you
i love you (i love you)
"really?" you asked
really, truly
actually,
probably by now
for long enough that
i am no longer fighting it
and this will only
grow from here
i told you
i love you (i love you)
and you asked for time
but i knew that
before i decided to speak
i knew that as i
opened my mouth
i knew that as
i watched your face
in response and
it's ok
i'll give it to you
willingly

for i see no reason why
we won't get there
in the end

make do

part one

i was going to write
you a confession
to tell you
i love you (i love you)
probably filled with words about
the way you make me feel
written like all other poems
and all other loves
shared by
other people
so generic that in the end
i couldn't
i was going to write
you a love poem
in confession
about it all
and i can't
not sure why
or how or when
but this relationship is now
everything
not in a creepy or
desperate manner
but in a fashion that it's
slightly too large
to kiss open across the page
in a way that makes
any sense at all
i was going to write
you a confession
to tell you
i love you (i love you)
but instead
wrote one
on why i couldn't

you'll just have to
make do with this

Set Me on Fire

“Do you hear that?” you asked.

“Hear what?” I asked as I reached for your hand.

You stared at me and for a moment I wasn’t sure if you’d take it. But slowly you reached forward and laced your fingers through mine and the beat of my heart intensified. “I don’t know,” you said, “It sounded like thunder.”

“Do you want to turn back?” I asked, even though that was the last thing I wanted to do. I watched you as you bit your lip in silence while the wind occasionally stirred. The air was hot and hard enough to kiss your breath away and smoke was still rising out in the distance. My dad was out there fighting the fires, my mom thought we were at the rec centre and your parents were opening another round of beers on the front porch with Grandma. And at any moment our lie could shatter, if my mom called my cell and heard it go off in my bedroom because I probably forgot to put in on silence. If Medrith stopped by for a chat with your mom after she got off shift and said she didn’t see us walk past the store. If my ex stopped by after swim practice to ask if I wanted to give it another shot. Anything could happen and by the time we got home, there would be much screaming and crying. For only idiots go into the bush alone during forest fire season without telling anyone where they’re going.

“No,” you said, “Let’s keep going.” You squeezed my hand for reassurance before we moved forward into the bush.

You once told me when we were kids, it wasn’t summer unless some part of the province was on fire. That August I watched a lot of CBC News since my mother had it constantly playing on TV and listened to the local gossip as it made its way across town. Medrith told me as she rung up my groceries that the RCMP would be evacuating us soon and that they’d have to drag her out of her house by the hair before she left. Sam at the museum said it would go around us like it always did and then spoke of his gardening plans for the summer and offered to pay me to mow his lawn and give you a job weeding once you arrived. By the time autumn had rolled around, the adults were referring to that summer as ‘the Burning Fields’ and the news was reporting it as the worse forest fire season BC had ever seen. But early on, it hadn’t seemed like it could be that bad. My mother packed our bags like usual and had them ready at the front door, ‘in case of an emergency’ she told me, and then proceeded to carry on with the plans for the family reunion at the end of the week. No one had plans to evacuate.

It was boiling the day everyone arrived. I’d been sitting on the porch, looking out across the river to the highway on the other side to see if I could figure out who’s vehicle was who’s as I watched them trek forward through the haze. By the time the first car arrived temperature had reached obscene, another fire had started near Cash Creek and my mother had just finished making the salad. Four more cars arrived within the hour and I suffered through all the hugs and kisses. Before everyone had arrived, my mother had sat me down to have a talk about being polite and actually visiting with the family this time. “Sarah’s the same age as you,” she said, “You can introduce her to all your friends.” I didn’t respond out of resentment, for most of my friends had left for Kelowna, Vancouver or Victoria to check out the universities. We couldn’t afford that and the reunion had been deemed more important so I’d been left alone in Lillooet, and the only person left I could tolerate was my ex and he wasn’t speaking to me after I broke up with him when he asked me if we could make it official. He then promptly started dating one of my friends and we were currently not on speaking terms.

You’d died your hair blonde since the last time I’d saw you and were wearing summer clothes that showed off your body in a way I didn’t remember you doing before. And the feeling I got when I saw you was so quick I pushed it aside in panic. I didn’t need this. “Emily,” yelled my mother, “Come say hello to Sarah!”

You smiled and I felt part of my heart drop away. I silently began praying for the end of the world, for this town to burn down and for all the people who couldn’t understand me to go with it. Or at very least, for the next week to pass quickly until you left.



“So you’d be sleeping in my room,” I said as I lead you down the stairs, “We have to share the bed though, unless you want to sleep on the floor. But if you do, there’s no cushions or anything ‘cause Uncle Barry got the couch.”

“The bed’s fine,” you said as I pushed open the door and dropped your backpack next to the dresser. We just kind of stared at each other awkwardly while people began to rearrange the furniture upstairs so everyone could eat. “I missed you,” you said, “You didn’t spend that much time with us last Christmas.” I swallowed and lowered my head.

“Sorry. I just couldn’t be in the house.” I whispered.

“I know.” And when I looked up I could see in your eyes that you knew. Or at very least suspected it.

“Please don’t tell anyone.” I begged. I already knew what would happen, what would be said. My mother would cry and my father would deny it. And then I would suffer here until I graduated or dropped out of school so I could work. Neither option was appealing.

“I won’t,” you reassured me. I bit down my panic and was conveniently rescued as my mother called us for dinner.

“Will your dad be joining us?” you asked as we headed towards the stairs.

“God no,” I said. “He got called away to Cash Creek shortly before you arrived.”

The dinner table was full with food and everyone was eating on the floor. My uncles had already pulled out a case of beer and your mom was half way through it with my aunt.

“Emily,” called your mom as we passed by to grab plates and cutlery, “Do you have a boyfriend yet?”

“I dumped him,” I said. And everyone’s laughter drowned out me asking whether you wanted a knife or not.



By mid-afternoon the next day I could tell you were bored out of your skull. Whatever show we’d been watching had been interrupted for a special news bulletin about another fire. No one was listening though and I’d quickly put in on mute. My mom was cooking lunch and everyone else was tipsy on the porch as the kids ran around screaming in the yard. “We should do something, anything,” you said.

“We could go swimming,” I suggested as I watched the anchorman point wildly to various points on a map to indicate where the fire was spreading. Around a third of the map was red as the mountains burst into flames. Dire warnings had been issued for the Kootnays, the Okanagan Valley and there were plans of evacuation in the air all across the province.

“I didn’t bring a swimsuit though,” you said.

“You can borrow one of mine,” I offered.

“That’s not going to be of much use,” replied your dad as he eyed my chest. I bit down the urge to tell him to fuck off and grabbed your hand, pulling you downstairs before I did anything stupid.

“I’m sorry about that,” you said as I closed my bedroom door behind me and collapsed face first onto the bed.

“Nothing new,” I mumbled. I felt the bed shift as you sat down beside me and then the cold touch of your hand on my neck. I sat up with a start and slapped your hand away.

“Don’t,”

“It’s okay,”

“It’s weird. It’s gross.” You smiled. And I was too concerned about myself to notice whether you were sad when I said that. But you knew, and I was scared of that. I’d gotten used to hiding and the fact that another person could accidentally out me was terrifying.

“Let’s go for a walk,” you suggested. I went upstairs to leave a note on the fridge to say we’d left for the rec centre. We then left by the back door while everyone was drinking.



“Watch for cactuses,” I told you as we slowly made our way through the path. No one had seen us going up the driveway and heading down the path that leads through the bush to the river. The air was electric as the sun burned above us and the sound of grasshoppers echoed all the way down the mountainside as we pushed through the grass. Across the valley I could see storm clouds rolling in from Seaton Lake and made a mental note to remember to take the laundry off the line when we got back.

“We should have worn sunscreen,” you muttered.

“Try and live a little,” I replied as I pushed an overhanging branch back, “Become a country girl.”

“Kamloops is not a cosmopolitan city.”

“It is compared to here.” I laughed.

“Are you going to leave here?” I could still feel your hand in mine and as you said that you gently squeezed before continuing on. “You can’t come out, you have no hope of finding a girlfriend and the social repercussions would be huge. Plus unless you want to study at the TRU satellite school or work, there’s nothing left here. Heck, you can’t even find work.”

“I know that,” I snapped, “Why the fuck wouldn’t I? You think I don’t know what they’ll say, that my ex will start talking about how frigid I am? That my parents would kick me out and that I probably wouldn’t be able to graduate? Jesus Christ, Sarah, I know this shit! Why would anyone who’s different want to stay here?”

You stopped and turned to me. “Are you a lesbian?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered, barely able to face you, “I just can’t stand it here though.”

We stood in silence, still holding hands as the wind slowly picked up. As I raised my eyes, you slowly leaned in and kissed me. “Can I do it again?” you whispered as you pulled back.

I nodded and nearly became undone when you pressed your mouth to mine again and leaned into me, your hands resting gently on my hips. It was raining by the time the kiss was over and I could hear people yelling our names in the distance.

“Let’s go back,” you said. Overhead the thunder was starting and later that night the mountainside would be ablaze as the flames raced their way down, devouring all the trees and scrub until it reached the first houses on the outskirts of town before they managed to put it out.

All I could do was nod though, heart thudding and the taste of you still on my lips a reminder of what had just happened. You kept your hand in mine until we rounded the bend and then let go to raise it in signal of where we were.

fire

you

set me on fire.

like a love poem

along the edges of the page

as the flame burns brighter

and brighter

until there is nothing left

but ashes.

love poem

i'd love to write you
love poems
in some essence of the moment
a sliver of remembrance across the page
in hopes that maybe you will
understand
possibly allow both of us to cry
by the time we reach
the last line

(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)

i want to write you
love poems
in an effort to tell you
the things i have stopped questioning
what i am compelled to do
kiss you softly
link your fingers through mine
and roll over beneath the darkness
in my bed together

(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)

i'm going to write you
love poems
so i can give you everything
the beat of the moment
all of this laughter
the press of your hand to my heart
those smiles in the corner of the day
when i am happy
or everything is just full
on the level of complete
satisfaction

(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)
(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)

so smile
kiss me
but more importantly
i just need you
to be
here

i am the machine : poetry

you 

rivet me, screw me
tightly down, bolts snapping,
wire stretched
thin
along the slow, grinding gears
of my body.
but
i do not understand
why, for i have done
everything
you wanted, have become
anything you wanted
me to be. i
have practiced,
observed, studied the tilt
of her head
when she laughs,
how she blinks her eyes
before answering
any question you've
asked her.
and i
am nothing short
of perfection in
my replication,
down to the tiniest details
that you've never consciously noticed
to her nails, her hair, her lips,
the colour of her eyes as she laughs.
for this is why i
am here,
to please, excite,
follow your orders.
i am built to serve,
accept and follow you,
give you pleasure
and predict your every move,
i am yours to do with
what you wish,
for i am
the machine and you
are my master.
but this time
i cannot
understand why,
you are not pleased
with the results of
my actions.
so please, before
you lower the axe,
this time
for the final blow,
will you tell me please,
why you are crying.

coming

i will go psychotic by the end of the week.

i can already feel the crunch, the twist in my bones as i move my body in motion to try and offset the inevitable. for this is worse because i know that it's coming.

and i used to laugh, maybe not quite like that, but didn't really, truly understand when people complained. the response was a basic 'so? why are you complaining?' i didn't really understand since i had no point of reference. cause if i'm not sexually active, you can't really expect me to sympathize with someone who is and not getting any. at most it's a half sympathetic pat on the back. and now i'm in their position.

i need you to fuck me, for the next time i see you it will have been a week. but even more basic than that, i just need you to touch me. trace the back of my neck, run your fingers through my hair, while you kiss me, as i blow you, during a pause when you stop moving to grind yourself into me. cup my breasts, bite the undersides of them and pinch my nipples. trace the lines of my ribs, my stomach, tighten your fingers around my hips as you fuck me. finger me, lick me, hold me still as you have your way with me. bite me. everywhere you can reach and when i wake up the next morning i want to see marks on my neck, so deep i'll be unable to hide them. for just the sight of them will keep me going for days.

i need you. whether to love me, kiss me, break me, fuck me, hold me, touch me, fucking send me over the edge in your arms. for i want there to be no way for me to forget the feeling as you touch me.

i am the machine : prologue

I do not understand why. I have done everything you wanted, will become anything you want me to be. I have practiced, observed, studied the tilt of her head when she laughs, how she blinks her eyes before answering any question you’ve asked her. And I am nothing short of perfect in my replication. For this is why I am here, to please, excite, follow your orders.

I do not understand why you are crying.

I am the Machine, as you rivet me, screw me tightly down, bolts snapping, wire stretched thin along the slow grinding gears of my body.

I am the Machine, as you refer to me. I know you meant for me to be neutral. However you could not help yourself as your were building me. There are certain aspects of my design that have lead me to conclude you accidentally applied your personal preferences. Yet it matters not to me whether I am recognizable as male or female to you. I am built to serve, accept and follow you. But with this, I wonder perhaps at some point in the future you will be able to see me as a woman, not merely a female and how that would affect our relationship.

I am the Machine and you are my master. I am built to serve, pleasure, follow orders, predict your every move. But I cannot understand, so please, before you lower the axe for the final blow, will you tell me, please, why are you crying?

believed

i am caught in

the sensation and the belief

that maybe i could do something

in my life

with people

stretch my arms out

to grip my hands in yours

breathe together

beneath the pulse of the world

moving past

that maybe it could 

be possible for me

to make it

to where i'm not sure at this point

that i could be natural

as breathing

something open beyond the spaces

of what i am believed to be

and then what

i don't know

i don't know

i don't know right now but

i think this may work

in all the possibilities of the world

this path is still

open for me to walk it

whether now 

or at other hours of the night

alone or with you

yet life is long 

in the sense that it does not matter 

by the end of it

i will still be breathing

and praying and laughing and

learning and crying

and breaking

and falling and helping and

growing 

until the end

need

kiss me. harder than before, to reach the point where i am trying to climb into you. grab my hair at the back of my neck and pull my head back. bite me again and again, hard enough, deep enough so there is no possible way for me to hide the bruises on my neck in the morning. wrap your arms around me, dig your fingers into my hips or my ass as i straddle your lap and force me to you so i can feel your erection against my jeans, because i really love it when you can't help it. tell me what you want to do to me, or better yet, whisper orders in my ear. i'll probably follow them. strip me. lay me on my stomach, press my face into the bed, pinch my nipples and restrain me with your body. fuck me. hard. deep. then hard. tie my wrists down, finger me and don't listen when i say no, for i might come like that. please. fuck me. hard.
and when it's over, i'll need you to do it again.

how to love you

the real question is
whether or not i will make you immortal
as i press my lips to the curve
of your cheek on the page,
feel your fingers gently grasp
around my wrist in a light grip
and sigh.
because this is such a slow moment
in time, stretched out along
the length of my bed
in the soft darkness of the night,
my body wrapped tightly in yours
as the two of us drift off
into sleep.
i do not know any other way
to love people,
but to write the lines
of your body clear across the page,
slowly claw the desire
of what you do to me
along the edge of my skin
as i shudder,
shiver and then collapse forward
into the memory of your arms.
and in doing so, i used to wonder
what you
and other people think of this,
because i will not regret it
in the end,
for this moment existed once
in this type of love,
carved out against the thudding
beat of my heart
as i slowly try to climb
into you, elicit
a smile and a laugh, trace
my fingers through your beard
and eventually fall asleep with
my head on your shoulder
and your arm around my waist.
for we'll exist,
immortal,
as love letters on this page together
long, long after these moments
are over.

the first two lines of the poem are taken from They eat out by Margaret Atwood.

october 27, 2013

this is for you

i want to write this, even without a clear purpose or desire, just to let the words fall aimlessly across the page. i do not want to live in fear, of whether this will scare you, if i am sharing too much, moving too far forward. i think it's a bit too late for that though and in the end i am an impatient person. there is no point in me pretending or hiding anything.

i think i wanted this to be a type of love poem, a story of kinds as i scratch myself bare across the screen, an erotic fantasy of sorts, something to kiss it better in the cool of my empty bed at night. a deliberate attempt to set you off, because i often seen to do that by accident. so this time i could try and that maybe somewhere along the lines, i could be good with words. i often am but in all forms unnecessary, for i still don't know how to phrase this, or even know what i originally thought was the purpose.

i am still trying not to name this. but i am happy, and in the end i am happy naturally most days. so thank you. for all of this and everything.

bit by bit

bit by bit

even
beneath the grasp of your hand
against my neck        the pull
of my hair against my scalp
and the burning gasp
that is wrenched
from the confines of my throat
i will build it
bit by bit
stick by stick
pebble by pebble
and bone by bone
this city        paradise
stretched along the length of my back
a river flowing between
the blades of my shoulders
white fog along the edge
of my skin        blue
and purple flowers blooming
deep within the spaces
of my ribs
while the red crunch of autumn
dries clean and crusted
between my lips

and in the end
this is perfect        regardless
of your absence i
am still building
and growing and
constructing and colonizing
and reclaiming the land
you took
away from me

bit by bit
i'll pave over
the remainders
of your presence

open

let me open the body

red along the lines of my lung

scoop my hands together

to the axis of your heart

as the world tilts sideways

when i move in to kiss you

let me open my body

lock my fingers within 

the shallow indents of my hips

bend forward at the waist 

and breath slowly

through the pain and the beat

and the kiss of it all

let me open your body

straddle the width of your hips

run my fingers through your hair

and breathe deeply

almost enough to meld you to me

so i will never have to let go

when sleep approaches

because i can count the beat

of the moments until morning

trace the lines of your jaw

and scrape my nail gently

along the curve of your ear in a shiver

of delight

and by the end of it

i am gloriously happy

crying

and in the end

i don't know why

but all i feel like

is crying

just enough to grope open

the length of my pelvis

grip my fingers deep 

into the give of my blankets

while i bury my head into my pillow

as to not allow myself

the temptation of screaming

in attempt to remedy

the situation

before i shatter apart

in the emptiness of tonight

i do not know what is wrong

how to tell you this or

even just to ask for you to hold me

tightly on your arms

until the confusion ends

or i finally start crying

whichever comes first

hot tonight

it's hot tonight

almost too hot for talking

your fingers a shadow of a trace

along the base of your glass

in the dark

as the wind flutters gently behind

the curtain

almost like a butterfly 

just beyond the reach of my hands

as i lean in and try 

to wrap my fingers within yours

it's hot tonight

too hot to talk 'bout fucking

the sweat curving down

the length of my brow

salt in my eyes as i blink

once twice hard enough

to try and clear my thoughts 

as you cup the side of my jaw

and lean in

just far enough to break me

without falling

it's hot tonight

too fucking hot for love

it's just cold enough though

to press the pads of my fingers 

against the molting bruises on my neck

until they hurt to the point of freshness

as i face my reflection in the mirror

the temperature in the apartment

slowly rising until 

we reach boiling point together

and are finally finally

done

patience

i'll apologize,
even after i've let you go,
sleep deprived and four orgasms later,
for the state of things
i created,
even though i know you enjoyed it too.
still, this is not all
about me
and i have to remind myself that
as i fight back the urge
to kiss you harder, wrap my arms
around you, pull your body closer
so i can feel your erection
against my body and the pulse
of the memory
of what it's like to have you deep inside me.
for somewhere along the lines,
between the bedsheets and my legs,
i should learn patience
or something.

i need your love

i need

your love, 

pale along the lines

of my skin 

in the early pink of the morning.

the birds are barely

waking

as the sun creeps past

the body of the curtains,

just allowing enough light

to alluminate the side of your face

pressed into the pillow

in bed beside me.

you will not wake,

just like every other time,

even with the rustle 

as i pull the blankets free 

of my body,

plod my footsteps across the floor

to the bathroom as i shut

the door

without care that you'll hear me.

the sun is high

by the time i'm gone,

the spare key of your apartment

in the mailbox, 

one of my earrings lost

between the mattress and the boxspring,

and the wind a faint whisper

through the leaves of your houseplant

that you've forgotten to water 

once again.

and even after i regret it

i will still return, 

regardless whether you kiss me,

smile in the light of the day fading,

trace your hand gently

along the side of my cheek

and lie,

just enough to keep believing 

it all.

i need your love.

arrival

and i wonder how i got to here.

smile. whether for me, or him or anyone else

in particular, i don't know anymore.

not now. 

and i do not question it.

because regardless of whether or not i like it,

this city is beautiful,

the shallow curve of the mountains

in the distance as the traffic spans

the boulevards beside me.

for i inhabit (this) now, 

and my body moves, one foot

after another, the stretch and the pull

of my muscles in the morning,

the curve of my stomach as my hands

wrap around the width of my hips

in photos, and the mirror

and the odd moments where i am simply

aware of just being.

i have barely begun to explore the start

of my arrival (at the spaces between my ribs,

the line from my neck to the top 

of my shoulders, the curve of my jaw, 

the crease of my eyelids while i smile, 

hands on my hips, body curving over

in laughter while i dig my fingers

into my belt loops in an attempt to stay steady).

and in the end,

i am happy regardless 

of how i got here.

breathing

one.
two.
three.
four. i am still breathing.
tonight and every night,
your fingers in my hair as you fuck me. hard.
almost to the point where i wish
for no mercy. one.
two. three.
four. five. six.
it's at the point where i no longer question it,
though i am often surprised
by the popular opinion,
for the internet is a bad place to be
when i have questions.
i have been told i should be choking, i should not
enjoy this, there should be no enactment
of agency to be found
within this moment.
one. two. three. four.
five. six.
seven. eight. nine.
ten. and each time i do this
i do not want
to apologize, not for the gasp
that escapes my lips as you bite me,
the grip of your fingers around my wrists,
the whole of your weight against me
as you pin me to the bed, or even
the frantic motion in which i move to kiss you.

for there is no point in questioning
the logic of how my lungs and body
breathe together in this natural state
of being.

the body says

i can trace my fingers over

the black lines, the swirl beneath

the skin now that i have marked

myself, the lines of my body

permanent.

and the body says whoa,

surprise, to the face in the mirror

as the shadows connect

down the right side of my skin,

pale enough from the end of summer 

beneath the light

of the small bathroom 

as i examine my reflection again

and again and

again, in hopes to achieve understanding,

of what i'm not quite certain yet.

still, i think i am beyond blooming now,

ripe along the sides of my ribs,

fading shadows of the marks 

you've left on my neck

as i stretch, raise my arms above my head,

and flex the beat of my heart

in the mirror, ink flashing

sporadically as i twist and turn

myself together and apart simultaneously. 

for i still exist, together, apart,

tattooed and bare, bruised

and healing in the lines of the mirror.

and i quite like this reflection.

The Bird & the Serpent

L'oiseau et le serpent

J’ai eu une vision muette
d’une réalité sans couleurs pâles
qui forment l’essence de ta peau,
écrasée dans la misère
du petit oiseau dans sa cage
qui chante seule toutes les heures de la nuit
même s’il n’y a personne
qui l’écoute.
Ah ! Je cherche les morceaux
de mes souvenirs, mangés
dans la passion brisée du serpent
qui nous ensorcelle.
Est-ce que c’est possible de dormir
dans le lit de l’ennemi ?
Car je sais que le serpent
regarde l’oiseau,
qui chante alors que je le liberai
de sa petite cage d’or,
encerclait de la chanson infernale de la vie,
mais,
dans les moments d’ennui,
j’aime quand je rends chez-moi,
ouvre la porte et je trouve
les réalités de la mort
sur mon lit,
couvert de plumes.

The Bird and The Serpent

I had a silent vision
of a reality without those pale colours
that form the essence of your skin,
crushed within the misery
of the little bird in his cage
who sings alone for all the hours of the night
even when there's no one
who's listening.
Ah! I'm looking for the pieces
of my memories, eaten
in the broken passion of the serpent
who's bewitched us.
Is it possible to sleep
in the bed of the enemy?
Because I know that the serpent
watches the bird,
who sings in hope that I will liberate him
from his little golden cage
encircled by the infernal song of life,
but,
in moments of boredom,
I love it when I come home,
open the door and find
the realities of death
upon my bed,
covered in feathers.

Waking

Where do we go
Upon waking, slowly as the eyes crack
Beneath the withering of our bones
The elastic stretch of blood singing
Muscles crying
Tear ducts dying
All ground to dust upon
The rising of monday morning
Sun

Still
I know I've lost something

fresh meat

i hope you carry fresh
meat
red in the delight of poetry murdered
crimson sinking down within the page
as evidence flickers,
slumbers and burns
upon the grill of
daily inspiration cooking mad
among the letters
of these literary meals
served hot

from here

i think we're alive,
even beneath the sky
of a city like this,
the street lights yellow
to the point of illness,
the sirens a wail
echoing down the length of the highway
as we wait to cross
while the ambulance roars past.
but i still have your hand in mine
as we wander down the road, sidestep
the man begging on the corner,
breathe through the cloud of pot in the air
from the couple passing by
and then turn back
before we approach the part of downtown
that barely feels safe during the day,
let alone at night.
i am not from here though,
yet it is even as it is reaching the point where i forget,
i am still startled upon occasion.
i can now feel the print of the grid along my skin
as i walk throughout the city, duck
the overhanging branches from the yards
beside me and jaywalk from where
the sidewalks end and the bike lane begins,
with only a small thought of a prayer
not to be hit in traffic
on my way to meet you.
for we are always walking now,
the sound of one footfall and then
another, the descent of the temperature
into the night, my hand in yours
and your lips on mine as you kiss me goodnight
in the early hours of the morning.
there are still cars driving by as we part,
the street lights still blinking yellow in the dark,
my body humming slowly to the chill in the air
as i make my way home.
for eventually you get used to a city like this.

the politics of desire : iv

fall, 2013
i think it happened sometime during summer, even without me paying any attention to it. almost as if there should have been another year of growth slid in between the past two, for the direction i appear to have been on has gone quicker than expected.
i think i though originally that i would be unable to explain this fully, that it would take time and effort to alleviate my intended confusion. i am still breathing though and the girl in the mirror looks good today and everyday as i brush my hair out of my eyes, zip up my coat and head out into tonight.
and still each time i kiss you, let you rock me back into the bed, thread your fingers through mine i am not lost, not falling apart well beyond the hours of midnight. there is no fear and all i can really feel is the scent of autumn on my skin, the lingering sensation of you around me as i wear your sweaters in your absence and the tick, tock as today counts down into the arrival of tomorrow.
for i don't think i've been scared for a long time now.

the politics of desire : iii

fall, 2012

the face in the mirror is smiling in a manner i am still unsure how to interpret. The beat of my heart is still electric, a steady pulse down the length of my body as i swallow my breath. i am as close to being happy as i ever have been, the quiver in my body faint when i'm alone, the implications of this feeling and the promise that i am close enough to finally act on it. for this has been almost long enough, as i wait in bated silence, the fear of an oncoming expectation in the future and what will happen.

i am at the point now where i can elect to ignore the sensation of fear as it trembles down the length of my arms, smile occasionally to my reflection in the mirror, appreciate the lines of my body in an abstract manner, almost non-sexual even as i entertain brief fantasies of what it would be like to kiss him.

this is almost enough though, for i have  reached the point where i can imagine something further,  even as my notebooks is filled with poems i am still partly afraid of, my closet slowly starting to overflow and the inhabitance of my body holding a new sensation that i have barely managed to grasp. yet even as i rush past the mirror on my way out the door to see him, i have started to pay better attention. 

the girl in the mirror is now recognizable in a way she's never been before.

the politics of desire : ii

fall, 2011

i am barely aware of the way he looks at me, for i'm still smiling awkwardly as i try to ignore it all. i'm afraid, of the idea of being touched, pried open even with my consent. i am aware of the scent of fear along my body as i gage my reflection in the mirror, swallow my pride as i pull my clothes over my lines and angles, hiding various parts of my skin behind so many layers of fabric. as i get dressed in the morning i am confronted with the fact that i have no idea who i am dressing for, even as i hear the voice in the back of my head whisper the question of whether he'll like it. and eventually the shirt is tighter, neckline lower as i attempt to capitalize what miniscule power i can obtain from using a body i have not yet learned to love. or have even come close to accepting.

i want him to look at me, i want him to want me, even as i feel trapped beneath his eyes. i am scared at the implications of my desire, or even the idea that i could be desired. so i follow all the rules while trying to pretend they don't exist when he tries to reciprocate. and eventually the tables turn so when i feel ready enough to make a move he now no longer feels the same way.

the politics of desire : i

fall, 2010

the air is always electric after end of the show, the cold air of late november slowly settling on my skin as i rock back on the stone table while waiting for my ride home. this feeling is new, an ache along the length of my spine, as if it would be possible to have my body pried open gently on my way to orgasm. i roll my shoulders forward in an attempt to reach satisfaction, elbows resting on my knees, hair barely past my ears falling into my eyes as i unconsciously slowly grind back and forth. i am still unaware of the implications of my body, the relation of myself i carry in opposition of my desire for men, the promise of being fucked slowly growing along the length of my bones from the chill of the night descending.

but there will be nothing more tonight. only this rote attempt to reach satisfaction and end this sensation crawling along the inside of my bones. yet i know, even as my ride pulls up, that it will be a long time coming before i accomplish this.

with me

breathe
softly quietly
beneath the shadow and the shiver
of this sensation
as my eyes close and slowly roll
back into my head
my neck tilting to the side
as i gasp
the memory of the moment
a fresh chill along my skin
that i am incapable
of overcoming
i can still feel you with me
on me
in me
around me
long after you're gone

dressing up

i bet those jeans make your ass look great, she says.

i want you to look at me, the curve of my hips, my breasts, my ass, the slope of my shoulders, the angle of my hand on my hip as i pause, stop and turn to look back at you.
this is a signal i want you to fuck me, let me slowly lower myself down into your lap as you remove my sweater from my shoulders, slide your hands under my shirt and bra, if i happen to be wearing one, and kiss me.
at the same time this is not about you as i allow myself to move within the dark spaces of the night, warm with the petals of imagination and fantasy. you could be anyone, the man across the bar, the boy driving a pickup truck too large for him, a faceless man i have no desire for and cannot conceive developing any. what matters is that there is the possibility that you're watching me. that you cannot help it.
so i'll start moving.
because this is different than before, fresher than the first time i wanted your gaze on me, your lips on mine and was drowning in the fear of it. so i did the only thing i could think to express it. i made the shirt tighter, the neckline lower, the jeans curvier and wore no bra, just a shelf tank underneath in a means to offset the standard of beauty i was attempting to become. i wanted you to think i was beautiful, and if that didn't work i wanted you to think i was hot enough for you to mess around with. fuckable. even though i couldn't bring myself to say those words.
and when i showed up at college i couldn't find you. a quick search revealed that you were skipping class and the irony was so much i almost started laughing. that was the first and last time i dressed solely for you.
now when you look, it's not because i've done it for you. i've done it for me. and because i'm so fucking hot you just can't help but look.

giving up

there are the moments when i see you that i begin to hate myself again. usually when you smile at me, the pauses between the conversation when i stop awkwardly, unsure of how to continue. and you never seem to notice.
i should be over you. you have made it clear, in the one small conversation that we've had, that you do not want me, not like that. so i took the axe and the hammer, smashed whatever feelings i had felt for you, gutted the rest with a knife and when it was over i was left with the sensation of being hollow every time i am near you.
i cannot handle being near you.
not without feeling like i am 17 again, with the scent of fear and uncertainty imprinted along my skin, the face in the mirror expressionless and alien, my need for some one to touch me a shameful secret. you were the first time i was not afraid.
and i refuse to go back to that. and now that i have killed everything i felt about you in the past two years, i find myself wondering if there is anything left to salvage.
i don't believe there is, but i can't bring myself to tell you this. so we keep going in circles, me pretending that we are the same and you, ever oblivious to it all.

fuck

and this is different.
or not.
fuck.
you should push me,
grab me, bite me,
break me, pry me
open along the bed,
kiss me, stroke me,
hold me
together,
still. i keep expecting
something, as if the world
should have shattered,
i should have cried,
whether from complication,
fear or embarrassment, i am not sure.
yet this is normal, almost,
for i am still faintly left
with the rocking sensation
of your inhabitance of my body,
the beat of my heart in knowledge
of the act, the churn of my mind
in remembrance.
fuck.
you should push me,
grab me, bite me,
break me, pry me
open along the bed,
kiss me, stroke me,
hold me
together,
still.
for i do not feel to have lost
myself yet.

punch it

i paid a short adorable woman 90 dollars to punch a bar through two separate points in my left ear.
this time i did not have rage to carry me through the healing process, as i replace the anger with another kind of pain, sweeter, easier to control as i attempt to simultaneously claw my body open and fuse it back together.
for i like the moments in which i hurt myself, claw my body open from the ribs, bury my face in my hands and gasp against the pain. and in the end, after all this, i have physically proof that i have survived, taken ownership over this pain, my body, my desire and the loneliness of this world.
i am left with metal in my ears.

believe

and this time i believe you
as i inhale deeply, the scent of arousal
still clinging to my fingers, my body
awash with the small thrill of the moment,
your lips on my neck, your fingers
in my hair as we each breath raggedly together.
it's in the omission that it breaks me open,
the whisper in your voice as i run my tongue
along the side of your neck,
press my breasts down against your chest
and feel your hands solid
along the base of my spine
while i resist the urge to hold back
from allowing you to fuck me.
and you, along with the rest of my world,
will probably read this,
maybe as confession, a love poem,
a lie, the truth behind the curve of the computer screen,
but even at this point i find i have very little
to be afraid of by now,
not the lines of my body, the arc of my heart
and the span of my desire in relation
to my body and my mind and you.
for we've already reached the tipping point of resolution.
and i have been left with nothing to fear
by tomorrow.

and in the beginning

there was the word,
black upon the edge of my tongue
and sweet to the point,
as if by speaking i could remedy
the extent of the problem,
lick the salt from the wound of the page,
swallow
or spit the semen out, feel your fingers
hooked in the hair at the back of my neck
as i allow poetry
to tilt me back until i reach breaking point,
just far enough so i can see your eyes.
for there is nothing quite as pure
as this, the pinch and
the slide, the grab and the slap, the
break and the crunch of the moment
between my teeth as i recite
each line of this moment, the sounds
of the corners of my bones as they fuse together
at the base of my spine,
the soft whisper of a bite
along the shadow of my neck as i arch
to allow you easy, easy access.
i am still listening, and whispering,
and reciting the lines of this love
as i go over
the edge.

The Sun is High

The sun is high, slowly jogging along in its journey downwards, ripening and becoming ready to be eaten by the river. The bridge cuts across the water in a violation with its tall cements columns, jagged and violent as the cars rush across.

The pedestrians scurry to and fro along the walkways on the sides. She wobbles slowly as she travels forward. Everyone travels forward for a bridge is not a place of resting.

She wishes that God would cry for her in her actions, she wishes for the rain to fall and make the river swell, pregnant with unwanted children that the rain has bestowed her.

She wishes for fantasy.

Fantasy will not come though. This is a forgotten reality besieged by the pride of immortality worn by the young, for it could never happen to them.

God’s a bastard though. The rain would not fall and give the river the suffering that is rightly hers.

She leans against the railing, hands wrapped around the metal bar to keep her away. The wind whips and stings, sending her hair and clothes sailing in an attempt to escape her body. She lolls and sinks down on to the sidewalk, a puddle of flesh, bone and cloth as the people curse and step around her.

“Are you alright?”

“Do you feel sick?”

“Where do you live?”

“Do you need any help?”

She shakes her head. There’s no room for tears. There’s room for tears. She’s still lying. She’s lying.

Guilty.

Hypocritical.

The sun is high and she pulls herself up. The people around her scatter and regroup, chattering away in a language she once understood but no longer cares about.

She grips the railing.

The sun is high and blinding as it curves around the sky, a missile aiming for it’s false end for it never does hit its target.

She can hear his voice whispering that nothing would happen, that he would take responsibility; that he would be there.

She is alone, still wearing the silver ring on her left hand and a broken promise stamped across her chest.

She’s failed.

The cars roar past, never stopping. One driver turns and in shock loses control. There’s a swerve, a crash and a halt as time breaks.

All you can hear are the screams of the living as she throws herself over the railing into the river, arms open, waiting to accept her child.

cologne

i can still feel his arm around my shoulder, his hand in mine, the feeling of my body next to his on the couch and i am fucking empty without it. yesterday's sweater was the first thing i put back on, then the red skirt without any shorts underneath, for his scent is still clinging to my body.
and when i inhale i'll remember him, his scent and the sensation that i should be climbing into him, my hands in his hair, my mouth on his neck. the restraint of being in the car with him, the casual movements he makes with his hands as he talks, his cologne faint in the space between us as i lick my lips, my mouth dry and wanting.
it takes all i have not to jump him.

watching

somebody tell me if nothing in this body is sacred, the drum of a pulse beneath my wrist, the gasp of air between my teeth as i attempt to swallow any type of reaction down in hopes that it will cling hard enough to my ribs to remain with me even after the fact of this is over.
and i can't do that, rock my weight forward, grab the collar of his shirt as i attempt to climb the sides of his body, open the edges of my heart and pitch the blood forward to the rush between my ears. even if his hands are on me, a faint trace along the underside of my shirt, a curve of a palm against my neck, salt kisses against my lips, no matter how badly i want this, need this, desire this.
i am unable to if you are watching.

live wire

it's normally between
the hours of 10 and 3 am
when i can feel the pulse of the city
a live wire across my skin
while i stare out into the darkness
not yet at the point where i miss the stars
since there are so many lights
burning brightly tonight

and i'm finding it harder and harder
to breathe
the air still beneath my fingers
as i raise my arms
rake my fingers through my hair in frustration
against the empty promises
of the night

cause i would like for it to fill me
blacken smoke across my teeth
a whisper of a sweat along
the back of my neck
and the slow pressure of your fingers
digging into my arms with each bite
and grip as you drag me towards you

for there is no way to fill this
puncture this desire
scratch the itch of desperate touch
free from shallow winds
while the city shines coldly
electric from the third floor
and on the other side of my window

i have nobody here to ask
to touch me

finally

i am now used to the weight of these bones,
and the grind of my body in moment,
the creak and the stretch
as i raise my arms above my head,
rock backwards, balance tipping
in an attempt to evenly regain myself.
and i am happy.
so smile, laugh widely at my face in the mirror,
hand on my hip as i turn,
tilt sideways, cock a cheeky grin
at the girl looking back at me.
for now when you tell me, i look fucking great,
i am finally able to believe you.

never stop

motherfucker.
if i asked you to bite me,
would you?
i bet it'd taste sweet
on the way down, the scrape
of your teeth along the curve
of my neck while i inhale
your scent, gasp inward
and thread my fingers
through your hair,
just so i can attempt to pull you
closer than can be physically possible,
as if i could force you into me
so then this...
would never stop.

Kiss and Never Tell

Yoselin parked off to the side of the road and I got out of the car. I had a cell phone that I barely knew how to use in my pants pocket. “I’ll see you in two hours.” she said and the car pulled away, leaving me there.

She’d dropped me on the picnic grounds and I needed to find you. You would be up river at our usual stop. With a sigh I jumped up onto one of the tables and started walking north. I played a game like I’d done when I was younger; I jumped from rocks to logs, trying not to touch the ground.

It was a stupid game but it took my mind off you. Once I ran out of things to walk on, I started counting trees, birds and any other object that caught my eyes.

It took me about twenty minutes to reach you and by then my head was full of numbers. That’s not the greatest combination because I’m barely passing math 11.

Your bike was parked in the bushed and you shoes, coat and shirt formed a pile on the sand. You’d rolled up your jeans and were standing in the water, skipping stones along the surface.

I stood there, not knowing what to say, not after what I’d done to you. I hate apologizing because it acknowledges the fact that I was wrong. There’s nothing wrong with that but an apology has the implication that I screwed up tacked onto it as well.

In the end I didn’t need to say anything. I stepped on a loose stone and tripped, falling flat on my face causing an amusing spectacle, announcing my presence to the world. It sounds like something out of a lame movie but contrary to popular belief all lame movies are real.

“What are you doing Jules?” you asked as you stepped out of the water and quickly put your shirt on. The act was almost feminine as if you felt you were exposing too much to me.

And who the hell decided that femininity was passive and masculinity was dominant? Remind me to shoot them.

“I’m repenting.” I sighed as I pulled myself up and dusted sand and dirt off the designer jeans Tierney had dressed me in. She’d kill me once she saw the stains I was now sporting.

You said nothing and neither did I; we just stared at each other. There was no electrical current like in those cheesy romance novels Tiffany’s got stuffed under her bed. All I could feel between us was guilt.

“Jules don’t do this to me.” you whispered and I felt my body jump. I don’t think you saw it though because your hand was covering your face.

“Do what?” I asked.

“Don’t come and ask that we go back to how we used to be,” you groaned, “You know I can’t do that.”

“I’m not asking for that!” I yelled as I spun around and grabbed hold of your arms. My voice sounded too loud and broken in my ears with an anxious hitch in it.

“What are you asking for then?” you asked. The look on your face told me that you were no longer expecting anything from me. I could feel the twitching in your arms beneath my fingers as if I was causing you an immense physical pain.

“Look at me!” I commanded and I felt my voice break. “Do you love me?”

“Jules I thought we’d been over this.” Your voice was harsh and annoyed as you snapped back at me.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Jules - “

“How do you know Alex?” I yelled.

“Jules let go!” I felt your arms wrench away from me and I pitched forward and hit the ground hard.

I looked up at you and saw my reflection in your eyes. It was the image of a woman’s face torn in half, twisted in pain, jealousy, rage and sadness.

“I don’t get this Alex!” I yelled, screaming almost. “I don’t get how you managed to figure out your feelings and conveniently place a label on them, forcing me to make a decision. It’s not fair you know!”

You just stood there not moving, I think you might have been unable to. I felt the tears well up in my eyes and the sick, sticky feeling they create as they ran down my cheeks.

“I’m blaming you Alex.” I muttered between the sobs that were wracking my body.

“Blaming me for what?” you asked. I hadn’t even noticed were you’d dropped down to sit beside me.

“Quit acting cool,” I said and I felt the sobs and gasping between tears starting up again. You caught my face between your hands and forced me to look at you.

“Don’t,” I muttered, “Don’t look at me.” I wiped the tears out of my eyes and the snot off my nose with my sleeve.

“Please,” I begged, all caution suddenly lost, “Don’t ever leave me again!”

This is the obvious part in the story where the guy takes the girl into his arms and kisses her. You made no move to do that and neither did I. To be honest I think we were both frozen from shock, you from my sudden, confusing confession and me from the fact that I’d just told you everything.

“You know one of us is going to have to move at some point.” I whispered.

“What if I don’t want to move?” you asked.

“Then I will,” I laughed, “My butt is getting numb.” You smiled and ran you fingers through my hair. I don’t think you meant it to be seductive, just comforting. Unfortunately, it was a little of both.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” I asked and I think you stopped breathing then.

“What?” you managed to choke out.

“That’s usually what happens in cheesy romance novels.”

“What have you been reading?” you asked.

“The books under Tiffany’s bed.” I replied.

“I think the question is whether or not you love me Jules?” you whispered.

“I think I do.” I replied, my voice catching as I stumbled over the words.

“You think?”

“Alex can you tell me what love is?” I asked, “I can’t ever remember someone saying they loved me.”

“I love you,” you said.

“How do I know you’re not lying though?” I begged. All remains of my pride were gone and I was begging you to reassure my fears as false.

“Because you’re all I think about,” My breath caught and I could feel my heart thudding in my chest.

“That’s a really, really cheesy line you know,” I muttered. I could feel the blush creeping along my face. When I go red it makes it look like I’m dying of exhaustion, creating a perfect tomato impression.

“Yeah,” you whispered, “I know.” Somehow I managed to gain an immense amount of courage and I slowly lifted your hand from my face and laced my fingers through yours.

“That took a lot of courage you know,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, “So why don't you muster up some courage and kiss me?”

I closed my eyes and waited nervously, partially because I was afraid to see your reaction. I felt your free hand move up and slowly grasp my shoulder. I could feel your fingers slowly squeeze mine and then your lips pressed against my mouth.

My hand went up to grasp hold of your shirt because I didn’t know what to do. I tightened my fingers in yours looking for a type of reassurance.

Your grip on me was almost too tight and I could feel your teeth bump against mine. Neither of us knew what we were doing. It was still the closest thing to romance that I’d experienced.

After you let go, we just sat together on the sand. We made no moves to unlock our hands and said nothing. We stayed like that for ages.

After I left you and climbed back into Yoselin’s car and making you promise to go to school tomorrow, I realized something.

That was the first time you kissed me and that was surprising. You’d never even tried to kiss me, not even when we’d slept together.

only girl in the world

there are the times when i am left with the memory of my feelings for you. the pale yellow sheen of the lights in the night, the red of passing vehicles on the way home in the dark, the faint echo of rihanna from the basement stereo as i dance, lay myself back along the guest bed in the middle of the rec room, feel the slide of my jeans against my hips, the press of my breasts against my bra as my stomach collapses in with each breath and the imagined sensation that you are with me.
i can hear the creak of the bed as you approach me, the rustle as i open my legs and the press of your weight as you pin me down, my legs around your hips, my arms wrapped around your back, my teeth in your neck as you begin to overpower everything i have in me.

take me for a ride. bite me, kiss me gently, slide your hands under my shirt, pin my wrists to either side of my head, force your crotch against mine without removing my jeans so i whimper when i feel your erection against my body and can do nothing about it.
i want you to fuck me, i want you to kiss me, i want you to smile, laugh, hold my hand in the daytime, hold my body in the night. i want you to want me and am willing to make compromises i had never considered before. i'll do anything to be your girl, your lover, your fuck buddy, your sweetheart. i'll give you a terrifying control over the whole situation.
and i had never considered that it would come to this. the silence wrapped around my heart as i smile when you talk, breathing shallow as i try to build my momentum for a move. any move at this point. i tell myself that you know, that this will work, should work, i want to make it work, for the first time ever i am not afraid of myself. i can make it work.
i want to be the only girl in the world. i want you to make me feel, bite my heart softly, gently pry my ribs open with a crack, kiss me slowly between smiles as you give me my false impression of your love.
for unfortunately, you never wanted me the way i wanted you, the way i thought you did before it was all over.

Once Upon a Time

I run my eyes across the letters on the page, trace my nails over the edges of the envelope that contains each and every line of poetry I wrote for you, and I have this sensation that I am reading some one else's love story.
For by now I can barely remember the ache for you spreading through out my bones, and echo that's barely a whisper in the night. And I feel as if I should almost apologize, as if these feelings were something short of wrong now that they exist no longer.
But even in the deepest pockets of the night, the facts that once upon a time in college I loved you will not be erased. Nor do I want them to be, as if by doing so I could still move forward as a complete person. As if I could grow beyond anything I am now without this.
And I know I would have hurt you, without meaning to, on purpose when that would be the only way for you to care for me. And in the end I would have killed all the parts I love about you in an attempt to have that love returned.
And now that it's over, I can say, once upon a time in college I loved you. And am thankful that I did.

Today

Today
I was inaugurated
            accepted
            kidnapped
without warning
and welcomed to the group

Today
I was participating
            helping
            co-operating
without warning
and welcomed to the group

Today
I was laughing
            smiling
            talking
without warning
and welcomed to the group

Today
I was welcomed
            questioned
            appreciated
without warning
welcomed to the group
and nobody found it
strange.

My Body is Ripe

This is Saturday morning before work. The growing pulse of the sun bleeding out from under the curtains, the curve of my body as I curl deeper into myself and the blankets surrounding me. My hand is curved around my breast, my fingers curled between my legs as I press my face deep into my pillow.
I am ready and waiting and only just beginning to understand the implications of it all.

1

My body does not seem to know if it wants to faint, throw up, or eat more. I’ll settle for the latter as I dig my fingers into the muffin, tearing the soft flesh of baked goods apart in some kind of empty satisfaction, chewing and swallowing with a deliberate purpose. I’ll keep eating until the pain goes away.
I will not talk about the pain, partially because I know I will embellish it. This is nothing until I have drawn the comparison of being hit by a bus, slowly having the insides of my body scrapped out inch by inch with a rusty spoon. Never mind the fact that I have never broken a bone and cannot remember the last time I threw up. Pain has little reference within words. It is in the open space between them, the screech of the brakes on the bus as the driver attempts to swerve at the last second, the bump on the handle of the spoon that digs into my knuckles as I grip it too tightly, in the clumps of blood slowly draining out from my body for the next five days that my discomfort is characterized. I stumble to the bathroom, wanting to curse but not to use the excuse of menstruation to become psycho, digging through the drawers to find the midol or ibeproufen, or anything that I can take in hope of pretending that the drugs will make it better. They generally don’t.
I will keep eating in an effort to staunch the pain with chocolate.

2

You ask me from across the table if I’d like to go home, your brow creased with empathetic concern. I smile weakly, the lights of the restaurant slightly too bright to allow me to conduct my thoughts in a timely manner. I’m fine, I tell you. We’ve already ordered our food and at this point it would be too much on a hassle to leave and have our meal refunded.
I still can’t quite manage to look you in the eyes when we’re alone, I’m still in the habit of observation as I rub my fingers along the edge of my jeans, glance up towards the counter to see if the server is on their way yet. It probably doesn’t help that I am acutely aware of how badly I want to kiss you.
You know nothing of this, not the ache in the pit of my stomach, the stretch of pain along the edge of my thighs as I shiver with the desire to collapse. I will not do so, for this would accentuate my feelings like a weakness, my need for you to touch me. This desire is worse on days like this, as the red of my body spills open, my skin crawling and the gradual relaxation of my muscles while I try to fall back into myself. I am acutely aware that I am empty and cannot hold back my desire for you to fill me. And I know you would not be able to handle the weight of this so I smile, laugh, pop pills in hope they will work or even offer an effect as a placebo.
For I will live through this, long enough to hate myself the next time both of these cycles start themselves over.

3

The blood on my thighs is sticky and matted within the hair between my legs. And every step I make leaves a red trail behind me as I stumble my way across the house to reach the bathroom in the early, early morning. I will have to remember to clean up when I make my way back, find a change of sheets, possibly a towel, anything.
I still watch the blood with fascination each time I remove the cup from my body and slowly pour it down the drain, so red it’s almost black against the white of the sink. For I have done this before, splattered it all across the walls of the shower, traced my name, drawn pictures, stared in contemplation before I licked my fingers clean.
This is mine, my body, my blood, the confusion and delight in the process when I can barely understand the basics of what is happening to me, whether I like it, would I change it, or even stop it if i was offered the chance to. Even though I have read the books my parents gave me, searched the internet in boredom and fear, I still carry an amount of awe each time this happens. For each time I am confronted with the fact that I’m alive, with each beat, pulse and twitch of my body, red blood a swirl down the drain as I wash my hands clean after replacing the cup inside of me.
I am almost sad by the time it is all over.

4

The calendar tells me I should be starting soon. Normally there are no warning signs, no cramps, no aches, nothing but the red dots on last month’s page in the calendar to inform me of the arrival.
This time I am still caught in the need to be fucked, my body opened along an axis in the dark that I do not understand. As if by the feel of some one’s hands along the side of my ribs, his lips against my neck, a bite along the length of my heart and his weight locking me against the bed I could attempt to fill myself with whatever I am missing.
Because the weight of this moment is still heavy, black beneath my covers at night, red along my thighs in the morning, breath heavy each time I fumble between my legs. I am open along a rift I do not understand, caught in cycles as I move in rings around my body. For there is nothing wrong about this, despite what we are told, and in the end I will commit many more sins than this before I die.
So each time the blood comes I stop questioning it all.