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.