If I breathe one more time, I’d begin to live.
You showed magic with an empty mouth.Now that you have sand and shame in it,I can’t wait to see what it can do.
If you think I am here for you,you’ve never been lonely.
Content warning: sexual.
You walked in, bolting the door behind you, leaving the world out.I just had three orgasms. I was tired, dirty, and sad.I’d put on my mother’s necklaces and danced around nakedly. I’d wanted to know what my mother would have done if she’d met you.I bent forward so hard to kiss my navel that I broke into two men.You stood there, as if you had never loved a boy before. But you never had; we were never taught to. I touched you, so you’d know how to love.You stood there, as if your hands could satisfy you forever, and your visit did not mean you fell in love with the way I spooned you.Sometimes, you hugged me so close my heart touched yours. Some days, you loved me so much I became a man for a minute, when I was barely fifteen.I whispered promises into your hair and prayed I were your eyebrows. Or the single hair that had begun to grow just above your left nipple.You could’ve stayed with me forever; I was a home you did not know you need. I could have showed you how hurtful walking alone is.You made me yours with the first handshake. You did not have to do much. I was an easy lay; had you not loved me, I would’ve loved you anyway.I had laid with you on the bed, thinking all the men you’d be replaced with. I had wished you were dead, so I wouldn’t feel guilty leaving you behind.You didn’t die. Neither you nor the guilt I had developed is dead.You took off your shirt and asked me to touch you; I’d never searched for pleasure in a body so much. But I found fear in places I did not expect it to be found, like on your back two inces above your bottom.Who do you think of when you touch yourself? I think of death, the imaginary dog we would have owned, and money. In the same order.When you come, do you wish you came for me?You stood there, as if you could go out anytime and love someone new.I never touched the oranges you brought home the last time. They have become beautiful ghosts I learnt to live with.The slight trace of the oil your face had, the mountain-sized fear your stomach had, and the almond-shaped love you had for the time we shared became one.The TV never made a noise when you touched my lips with your chest. The phone never rang when we were angry or hurt.The unbearability of who we were died with the condom that was never used but was thrown away. The happiness you and I made faded when our cum dried.You stood there, as if I was a mistake; as if you were a mistake.I put on my mother’s sandals and walked around. I wanted to know what she would do if she wanted to know she was a mistake.
I have no sound reason to bequiet or loud. As the words I writetake care of their volume.
I set my lazy on fire and forage for poetry in the ashes.
What’d healing feel like,if I am not healed already?
There are no wounds to a soul.Whatever happens to it, stays asit is, forever. Without healing.
Where are the words that slippedout of me in haste and entered yourears? What have become of them?
I have been never handeda flower. This should keep me anxiousfor nine more nights.