Take my body who will, take it I say, it is not me
Thinking It Will Work This Time

We promised no emotions
Making shallow cuts we swore across our organs
That it was five weeks of physical
And then 100 medical science years of nothing
At first the love stories that started like ours made us laugh
Their silly feelings, it fueled our superiority complex
We sat like kings
But played like squires
Shying away from anything dangerous
The conversations that threatened to bring us closer
Soon we weren’t laughing
We were hiding
Careful to skip love songs and goodnight kisses
I put my hands over your ears when they told stories that started like ours
But soon, my hands were on your face
And so now 1810 miles away
I stare at a box that imitates your face with pixels
Still promising we are nothing
But thinking of no one else

The Following Is For The Boy

I do not want to write about how we got there
I do not want to write about his hands leading me to the space between his legs
Or his legs leading me farther in
No I do not want to speak of leaders
It was after when we stepped into the brisk air that I felt anything but myself
Stuck together by sweat and cum and spit the cold air in the real world threatened to cut as apart
And so I realized we had been together
I find myself now dreaming of laying with you
Stroking pink fingers over new bruises that were never mentioned in their warnings
But then I did not want to lie
I wanted to jump
So spinning we felt jubilation and something like love
Love which was never a factor
Never discussed
Love leads them in romance novels, in sappy parents cautions
We led ourselves with no guidance from the lights
Under our stars though, after my in body experience
We followed a path that was never mentioned in their joy

Must Be Comfortable

I have been uncomfortable in my innocence

Uncomfortable in my intimacy

And uncomfortable in anything but full disclosure

So here is who I am

A strategist I have never been easy to break just easy to bend

And wrung out I drip tears from a place near the surface

Not truly bothered or broken, just pinched

And always uncomfortable

You see I have become strong boned with a million marrow transplants from promisers

Compliments rain down, increasing my vanity and my strength in turn

But suddenly their words slip off the windowpanes and mean nothing

The audience has left for intermission and they came back changed

Watching me shed, their gifts become more important and I stop caring bit by bit what they have to say

A wretched school girl giggling and staring I am for the first time

Lucid

Hallow boned

And lost in her eyes framed in black a picture walled up at the art museums we dream of

I have lived a passionless life never giving or taking much

I wallowed in my losses but never excited in my possibilities until her legs like roads took me somewhere I never though I needed to go

With the passing of time it seems so obvious that I was uncomfortable

Fit into a box I thought was the whole universe

If poetry is authentically feeling then I have never written poetry until today

I like to be right, stemming from the bones and the vanity and the deep pools of me I fight when I’m wrong

But this cannot be that fight

I am uncomfortable in any role but that of the archivist keeping score and using any piece of parchment I can to back my lies and my truth

But I am done being uncomfortable

And this does not need anyone’s validation

Not even my own.

I must be allowed to go back on my decision, to go forward, to fluxuate

Do not make me fight with the lies I find in cabinets long gathering dust I must curve back and forth in this murk

This is not Yes or No but Maybe

Always Grey, Black and White are irrelevant

I feel weak now that everything I thought I knew is grey

Weak but I am comfortable for once in forever

I am comfortable in my grey area and you must let me live here

I have never been more comfortable, then I am here in the grey of biesxuality

All my strength is gone, every bit of vanity is lost

But I am so comfortable

Clean Slate

Believe it or not there are days when I don’t feel like a worn pair of socks

There are days when the happy song of birds is the first noise I hear, and I don’t scoff at the snow white cliché

Days where blue light floods in through my window overtaking the grim

Crisp air slips into my lungs despite the allergy-caused inflammation

And I touch my face to find a misplaced smile I don’t remember leaving there

These are the days my slate is whipped clean

Every part of me I want to hide away in comforters and thrift store sweaters is shiny and brand new 

Each mistake is understandable, affordable; my life doesn’t feel like a spectacle on these days

You are one of those days

Hands greasy from bike chains and my stains you make me feel like the birds are singing

And with you, it is a cliché

It’s holding hands in the park and not checking over my shoulder for girls with tongues pointed like sniper riffles

It’s pulling back the curtains of curls I use as a security blanket to reveal the toothy smile the condemned aren’t allowed to wear

Skipping and singing and dancing in the rain, or falling in the rain while you dance I am untouchable every day since you let me start over

Dancer

I believe I was at some point sane

But it took no time at all to realize I had lost my mind in his two step

The poetry his simple feet create, tip toeing on the earth as delicate as fingers scampering away on a keyboard

Morse code resides in his spins slipping around and into each other making music I long to hear

His inner monologue so much more tasteful than mine I tear at my hair trying to wheel into his head

I will go crazy forever trying to bow every muscle the way only he does just to glide into his abstract shapes

Yearning with extended fingers I try to feel the emotions he is constantly inventing

There is no stretch in his laugh lines or his pliable spine only smooth silk, running this way and that

Is it confidence that lifts my Peter Pan inches off the ground?

All air swings to let him through and there is no resistance where he sets his weight

I stumble clumsily alongside thinking myself talentless but realizing it is the eyes peering out from the bushes that hinder me

He is fluidity and calm and music in my grey bleak universe

Because it is not just the air that moves for him but the world, obstacles soaring out of his way in time with that hidden melody

Every leap is so public, open arms keeping fingers reaching for the soft at the tops of the trees

His rib cage breaching to let air in and out freely, I feel my airways constricting 

And with the bit of brain capacity still in my control I consider his dance is not what is impressive

Though his body touches buoyantly to the earth in a manor to be revered is it not the music I admire,

But the magnanimity

He would let so many daggers spike him, the golden blood of the gods would pour out into his circle of gravity

But so innocent and open, no one shoots their arrows at a dove and so he is protected

I slip my hand in his, sanity returning as he lands heavy on the cracked dirt

His graceful step gathers an admiring glance or two, and I wonder do they know they are about to lose their minds wishing to be as free as my dancer

What You Can Do To Make It Up To Me

I think he might not understand what apologies are.
He can take hold of my face with steady hands big enough to keep the Earth from shaking, much less my small world from breaking.
He can look into my eyes with a fire so intense I don’t know how he keeps it lit in the misty grey wilderness he calls his soul.
And he can say the right things, the words I didnt mean to teach him but you can’t take back an education, the feeling he’s rehearsed in the mirror is already perfected.
But coming back to someone? After you hurt them and broke them and tossed their fading crumpled form away? That’s not something you do in a fifteen word sentence, even with the eyes and the rumbling voice that could break my feminist high horse.
I have been walking against wind for weeks, pushing against currents until my muscles grew weak to find my way back to you, and you take one step, and fancy yourself a traveler?
My effort does not lead to your results, no amount of love can change this rule so drastically.
Get down on your knees
Plead
Cry
And if you must, then take my face in your warm hands, look far into the windows to my soul, and instead of spewing copy written words could you please just say something?
All of these noises and there is no content, something I have found you have plenty of.
I think maybe, you don’t understand what apologies are.
Maybe you don’t understand when you feel for something, feel it in the pit of your stomachs the way we do about each other, you have to try as hard as you can to keeping that feeling and that something close enough to touch.
I know you understand so much, and with the memory that takes screen captures you could tell me what “apology” means.
But in your own words please; how do you intend to fight for me?
And how many times are you going to say “I’m sorry”?

Towering Over You

I am small.

Its not just the little fingers, the size six feet, or the a-cups.

It’s not just the whole 5 foot 3 inches I stand.

I’m small where it counts too.

My circle of friends is small,

Two best friends

Two close friends

Three friends.

Because the love pumping through my heart keeps getting stuck in narrow passageways and claustrophobic arteries.

I fit under arms and on laps,

Passive,

But not aggressive.

I’m talentless, passionless, loud; but with nothing to say

And even with all of this smallness…

I am so much bigger then you

For Letting Me Love You

I have heard to love is nothing.

Been told that to be loved and love back is what life is all about.

And without the others feelings…. Well you are sad

And desperate

And alone.

Because to love? That is nothing.

I could not disagree more.

You see the love for you swells within me, pressing up against my rib cage like the waves on the rocks. Breathes are deeper, lights are brighter, rain is colder, lips are softer. Loving you gives me purpose, background music, and speed. I might not get the IKEA montage with this one sided story, but you inspire me to be happy with myself. You inspire me to have my own montage. To love you, it makes my blood flow faster, every body part tingling with life.

It makes me feel alive.

And that is something, something quite incredible.

Thank you