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