Blood flows into the folds
Dried into a purple bruise on silicone
With each stroke I’m coming alive
You are my movement and direction
A wounded force
I’ll make you a monument
doodle of my loss
from an arrow
gas pumps and cable ends
glass bottles and rolling pins
hot dogs and bananas
You are direction. Action. A flow of current.
An instrument of love
The air outside is vulnerable. I consume myself for wanting to turn you inside and hold you there. My throat has been contracted for signs of these things that I’ll never speak.
I wrote a poem while looking at you at a symbolic remove, intense in the damaged shreds of us. I close my focus when it narrows to find me ugly. I have the fantasy of you. You were looking at me too. I want to ask you inside. I was afraid of sleeping beside you, of right and shame. I want to ask you about sensuality. You say yes to symbolize my conscious control, but then I just want to feel taken by you.
And maybe in this place I think about, you are always talking and wrong. I don’t quite know what is what. I close up so much when I try to kiss the rules. In that place with you I block myself from thinking as a child. But I want to get lost in your mouth. I want to be close. I want to be wrong.
If you are watching you still don’t quite know how awful it is if anyone saw what I’ve thought through my eyes? I hate what I was, afraid of you. So many layers of guilt if anyone saw what he wanted. He put his mouth for a thousand lashes of me without leaving my mouth for as long as I could. Pretend like about making out. I’m repeating old lines, flicking my words into your ear. But I can’t even talk about being held.
I’m thinking about what I’ve noticed when you are inside. These things are too embarrassing to write, even while alone. My friend said that you say I could make your lips. I can love things that are too direct. What if anyone saw I want the possibility to soothe the pain.
I notice when you are on the edge over shame and I can’t say yes or no. Maybe if I thought of you, really asleep, slack jawed. It inhibits my desire. I could. Pretend like it turns you but you only want to be cool. What if I imagine conversations in my own friendly mouth. I think you were looking clever and it’s too difficult, too real.
I get caught. It so directly seems like it turns you, sitting softly in the side of guilt and shame. I’m still here, even if I thought these things I’ll never speak. I intended to be with you through that small window and needed. I know how to incite and write about how awful it is. So many layers of skin around your softness is open to my fingers.
I chose you when you caught me, but then again, you inside. I would take any of its indirectness. Comfortable. Not literal. Verbal sparring. A man who consumed himself because he wanted. He put his mouth, feeling stupid passion of skin and it suits me too. I want to say it shouldn’t. What if I think so hard to say yes, to say yes, to want to write the things that are close. I can’t because it’s with you inside. Softly in its indirectness. Comfortable. Not literal.
My friend said I was afraid to be a better writer. It’s too direct and I imagine saying it kills something. But I also hoped it could turn you inside. I can love things about being in the air outside.
I’m fine but I couldn’t follow you, especially when I feel worthless. That twists your concerns. You say it wasn’t possible. I hate the part of you that thinks I could hurt. I want to disappear. But it grows when moments trap us into anger. I let my empathy hurt you? I am motivated by it? You just took the part of me that was happy and cut a hole in it. Call me if you find yourself in the reality where I am. We can laugh about all the things that are getting to our hearts.
The things I distrust are made more explicit. You don’t see me into submission, but I do. I lost the chance to bring the monsters into our inauthentic interactions. Its terrifying. You were talking about sex, so I wasn’t listening. I will hold you. But he will find you at ease and bring the kill.
I’m motivated by our friendship; when it’s cut off it’s the most important. I am motivated by ideas when I can associate all of their meanings beforehand. Its the why of it all; why you think I’m drawn to cause harm.
You said its about projection. In the subtle ways I shut you out. I enliven the muck that motivates you to cross me out. That part is not unusual for myself when I’m alone. Intuitively I won’t speak my desire; blame me if I can’t know my desire. My approach can be provocative.
I understand I have your conditional support and I’d rather pack it up and shut down. I have this funny thing. I lose trust. I feel strongly that you think you’re worthless. That you will softly project my fear of how fragile we are, what I want with you, and how trapped I am in assumptions.
Sometimes our feelings are intertwined and that’s when we are at risk of conflict. I become invested in each millimeter between us. I don’t want you. It’s not possible. It’s generative.
I blame you for being magnetic. It’s intensely physical and will take some time. Its too much and I couldn’t express my sense of it, of synchronicity and expansive love. That’s what I…just don’t call me out. Direct conversation cuts too close to my other layers. It’s not intentional that I open myself to that.
I’m ok. I can work with you.
transpoetics 