The funny thing about first kisses is that they are very rarely on their own.
You take the first, and you go back
for another
and it derails off what is
socially acceptable
and sooner or later
it’s like a knife in someone’s back
and lost in the moment
you keep taking the knife out
and stabbing it back in
but you see the thing, most wounds i have are self-inflicted.
i’m kind of reckless like that, some may even say
self-destructive.
i promised you a poem
was going to compare you to a penknife,
always by my side,
your tips on my skin,
leaving marks
everywhere.
but that was kind of sad.
so
i wanted to compare you to scars
peppering my body
like powdered sugar
on deserts and
salt on wounds.
but that was too cliche-
till i realized you actually were a scar
the ones left behind by stitches
that hold me together.
i knew a boy with a dent in his chest.
genetic defect, he told me.
his father had it too.
he was lying on his sofa, his head in my lap.
had my hand against his bare chest, fingers tracing
the circumference of it.
let my fingers slide into the cavern
and realized the bone that con caved into a well.
“could store water in there” i laughed.
he gave a sigh.
“do you know what’s a kappa?” he asked.
I shook my head.
And he told me they were Japanese water demons
with indents in their heads.
They needed to keep water in it, or they’d be paralyzed.
and they might die.
so i gave a smile and told him how
he must be living off love then.
he sighed again
and stood up, and i could practically hear it
as something lighter than air crashed onto the floor
“you are lovely,” you say
stuck your hand into my chest and started braiding my veins
draped them from the hole you punctured
and bled me dry.
-
you told me once that loneliness was a man
with a gaping mouth and
a hunger like the spaces between stars.
you told me that he sat in a room
with a dinner table, lavishly spread with food
and he just eats
and eats
until there is nothing left but the bones and dishes.
and he even eats those.
he eats the tablecloth and and the candlestick
and starts tearing apart the table and chairs
and despite the splinters in his mouth, he keeps eating.
he started tearing up the walls and the floor
and he just eats
and eats
till it’s just you and him,
in a room that’s not really a room.
and he starts eating himself, tearing his skin off,
and biting into his flesh.
and he just eats
and eats
till it’s just you
in a room that’s not really a room.
-
after you bled me dry, I asked you,
“what now?”
and you said I was like a balloon,
hollowed inwards.
and you wanted to fill me up,
so you took your lips and pressed them to mine.
and dragged them down, from my mouth to my cheek, to my jaw, to my neck.
to my chest and to the gaping hole.
and you started blowing.
one day, on my way home
i saw a dead bird by the road
its wings folded to it’s chest,
stray feathers on the floor,
i decided to keep a few
i just sat there.
stroking its fragile little head
before bringing it to a corner
and whispering a prayer
to whatever god it was going to
-
i gave a few of the feathers to you
leaving out the fact that
they were from something dead,
instead telling you they were from a bird
that flew into my house
knocking things onto the floor,
leaving a few feathers behind as payment.
but you still use them as bookmarks,
despite how you don’t like dead things.
this is a poem about the time a child asked a zebra
if it was black with white stripes
or white with black stripes,
so the zebra replied,
are you naughty with good habits,
or bad with good intentions.
are you sad with happy moments
or happy with a few sad times.
and
and
andand
there was this one time, i did something really reckless.
and i hurt so many people, andand
i was trying so very hard to uncut myself
-
‘hello’ said the little boy
‘good morning’ said the zebra
‘did you hear? asked the little boy
‘yes i did, such a pity,’ the zebra replied
‘such a sad, sad pity.’
-
and i was standing there, front row
to your show, cheering my heart out, because
if words were bullets, i’d liken you to a killer who
takes out a gun and kills everyone within earshot
but the thing is, when the zebra went on stage, he wasn’t reciting poetry, but a strangle little list:
and, how was i supposed to know
he was actually telling me
all the things i’ve been doing wrong.
dear x,
don’t you remember, the first time i went out with you? you asked my friend for my number, and you texted me one day, saying you were in the area, and. i said yes. so, we went walking around a few stupid malls, you bought me a coffee, and to my little heart, that was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done to me.
dear x,
remember the time we first kissed? because i don’t, but i remember how awful it felt to have someone’s lips on yours, and the tongue, oh god the tongue- i described it to a friends as two slugs dancing with each other, slimy muscles. he gagged as i gave a little laugh, because, really, slugs aren’t really that gross, and the image of them waltzing around is sincerely quite cute.
you were supposed to love me.
thanks for the disappointment.
sincerely,
me.
hello there, stranger
i waited a fair bit, but
you’re here now, and
i was supposed to tell you about
my baby teeth and how i lost my favorite
teddy bear, i left it in a hotel, and
there were accidents involving stitches and
a variety of crushes, all of which never developed
into anything more, and
there was this time i got really, really sick
but it’s nothing i can’t catch you up on,
because, you’re here for now, and
up till this moment,
i was waiting for
someone
to hear that story about the time
i did something reckless,
without telling me i was a bad person.
we sat there
dinner plates
empty,
we never eat
the table was moving
in little circles,
teased by the kicking of our feet
against it’s legs
the cutlery hits against each other
like they were trying to speak
but were failing at finding the words
we sat there,
the tremor against the wood
moving the plates around
until they fell
and broke on the floor
and we continue kicking
till the fork was a horse
galloping across the table
and the candlestick was
a castle,
and you were a prince
who just idly kept thumping your boot
against the table, thumbs twidling
because you didn’t care
that we could have had a kingdom
with no feasts, and no food
and just us,
boys made of china
love is not a fresh coat of paint
that leaves me feeling
new and untarnished.
love is not a fix
does not undent the body,
does not polish the soul.
love doesn’t help you
heal the scars
but causes them
in a manner of ways.
new message:
i don’t mean any offense, but if you aren’t sad please don’t give people the
impression that you are.
-
you saw my arms the other day
and said the scars were from a match,
or a cigg
like it was a fact and
i smiled
and told you they were from a knife
but in reality,
they were from a break out of chickenpox when i was 11.
-
darling, you called the other night and shoved
‘cheer up’
down my throat
and i responded with
“no, i’m fine, thank you,
just deepthroating life like a champ.”
but you were so sure about the fact i was in agony,
despite the fact i was telling you how i wasn’t, but-
you said, and i quote,
“when you’re so stubbornly sad, it can be annoying!”
i laughed and hung up.
-
last night, i realized,
you were playing connect the dots with stars on my skin,
so i took a pair of scissors
and cut away all the attachment i had to them,
so you could make up the stories
and say, this one right there, was from child abuse,
and that one there? a burning needle
those little lines? from a penknife
and, that big group over there?
it’s called the big dipper.
(1)
you asked for time
so i locked my door
and gave you the key
and told you i wasn’t going anywhere
and from the comfort of my room, i can hear you.
your heartbeat is something off a vinyl
my fingertips like the needle
skipping songs and licking cracks.
(2)
my bedroom wasn’t the best place to keep myself
i keep matches in the footlocker
and penknives on my desk,
but i own a computer, so i booted it up
and wrote a poem about you, because
a poem is kind of like a cut,
and a burn, and a whole lot of other things,
but most importantly
you get the satisfaction, the guilt,
and the same dull ache.
