We have some sort of crooning, bearded man’s songs on repeat. He sounds like it felt when you pushed me back into that doorway, held my arms tightly, and laid your lips on mine. You knew exactly whose fears you were tasting; licked them from my throat. I still feel my core quake low when I think of this; the rumble of recognizance of a partner, a partner, in this man.

I had mistakenly grown used to complacency. To promises. To getting it over with. To a slow burn and build at most. I heard fireworks in my dreams but I always lived in the day after the parade. My skin tingled from the thought of the night sky in my sleep.

My heart yearned to see the sky alight;
to press my fingers, feel your thoughts rush under skin like a stream in an earthly cave;
to feel how sweet your water tastes on my parched tongue.
I needed to taste the rhythm of the pulse in your neck
and scare you, just a little.
To be unknowable and
unattainable. Withering from grasp.

When we lie naked, sated, cooling, your fingers trace the outlines of my outlines. You fill in the shadows dropping from my hips and my lips and my breasts with soft warmth and I am warmer, with you, in the darkness than I feel in the sunshine, sometimes. I admit to myself this, though it terrifies me. Electricity is new for me. Vulnerability is a safe place in all the wrong people.

I’ll cry with anybody over the phone, but ask me to teach you what my body likes. You’ll have to suck the poison from my veins. I’ve felt its ache. I want your spit to heal my wounds when you put your lips to wrist. I am not afraid of the poison, but I am living and alive, still. Again.

Photo credit: Tommy Ga-Ken Wan on Flickr.


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