Response

“Write a sext for me.”

I look up from tracing constellations
in your palms’
You always seem to claim that there
is starlight in my eyes, so I’m
forging a map for you when
you feel like exploring my
optic heavens.

“What?”
falls from my mouth
like a question
like a vibration;
my voice box is jumpy
with anticipation, the way
I get when you brush a
piece of hair back from my
face.
The way I get when I trace
the line of your jaw.

“Write about how I make you feel
like sunburn & desert heat.
Write about how I’m ocean &
you’re lost out at sea.”

I tell you:
“It isn’t that easy.”
Because you are like waiting
for an earthquake & letting
out a sigh of relief when
your tremors shake me.

You are like a well & I have
been on the road too long,
craving only your drink.

But I don’t tell you these
things.
The irony of letting my words
undress you when your fingers
have been simultaneously craving
for contact.
You want to break through paper
walls & Word document barricades
that I have installed around
myself.

Your eyes meet mine & if
I’m starlight,
you’re sunrise & I am awestruck
as you begin the day with your
naked light touching me.

“Then make up something.”

I open my mouth to speak &
you bite your lip like I am a
cavern & you’ve been on a
desperate excavation for rubies.
May your tongue discover all the
riches of the world.

Your smile
falls from your face
like a teardrop
like a landslide,
the same way your breath used to
fall around me, when our bodies
hovered at altitudes that caused us
to share oxygen.
The same way my heart does
down the side of the mountain, hitting
sliding around every obstacle in its path.
I am mudslide.

“Make up something
—-even if it isn’t about me.”

I exhale air instead of sound.
Silence
is always the wrong response.

We scrape metal like magnets; 
our attraction is tangible in the
air around us & even iron
bows in our presence.

I am beaker to your scientist;
you pour love into me like chemical mixture
& I bubble over.
I am soaked in explosion and
do not miss fire.

You are morphine
& my veins crave the itch;
I’m biting at my wounds & 
ripping open stitches just to feel
your rush.

But
I don’t say this;
I don’t say anything.

Instead,

I lift my pen & watch
your profile crash with the sun;
she kisses the lines of your
face with shadow;
her own private “thank you”.

I write:

To the boy who wanted a sext:
Find metaphor in this——

And I kiss the page & pick
up my things.
Because while I am
literary
I have no idea how to tell you
literally
(without metaphor
without simile) that
“I love you”
Simply.

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Body Party

“I know you hear my body calling you…”

So put down the phone;
Prowl across the mattress,
push the tendrils of chocolate off my
face & tease.

Gently at first,
mouth to mouth, but lips aren’t
touching & I don’t know
if you’re breathing me
in or stealing my breath.
You smile wickedly, nonetheless.

And as my chest is rising,
I’m pushing your hands down
reluctantly & you are biting &
whispering all the things you could
do to me.

My heart has fallen past my
stomach.
All chords you are plucking are
below the belt.
And you are no longer merely caressing.

When you squeeze
you are memorizing flesh;
you are letting my sighs,
my moans,
cloy your memory.
You are relishing this power
over me.
Only you can tune me to the
right key.

And suddenly your lips
ignite every note & my body
fills with wind & I am an
organ.
Blood rushing,
flushing,
throughout & I don’t know if
I am saying your name
or confusing you for God.

Hallelujah. Hallelujah.

1,2,3,4,
Pumps &
breath falling
all over me;
whispering:

“My body’s calling you.”

Defense

I have given up on
trying to find somebody
who will make me feel
the way you do.

And I don’t mind
truly, that things are not
the way they were.
I remember how you looked at her.

But—-
When she turns and tells me:
“He’s just like (you).”

I stop.
I glare.
I correct her.
I say:
“He’s nothing like (you).
(You) respected me.”

You loved me.

I loved you, too.

I have accepted
that I will not be attracted to
others just as easily.

The first time I saw you,
my head spun around until
my neck cracked.

When he walks by me,
I don’t even glance back.

Inferno

“You don’t need to choose 
mediocre
when fire exists.”
– Victoria Erickson

You don’t need to settle for less.

You don’t need to take in
the “Cute”s
the “Naive”s
the “Innocent”s.

I swear those who mock
white
are too busy
washing out their own
stains.

I swear those who insist
you “bang” everything
that walks
aren’t getting any.

And I’ll let ‘em think
that when we’re contracting against each other’s bodies
and you’re are pulling me against you
until the air is choked between us,
that I’m still a good girl.

I won’t tell them how you feed me the universe
and that you lit my blood up.

I won’t tell them
your name is forming scars on my spine.
And you’ll make up some elaborate story
about how some you were in fight club
and that’s why you got the split lip.

Because both you and I know
“virginal”
is not a synonym for
“settle”.

But we’ll let ‘em think, babe.

And then you and I will set fire to our bed,
rolling to douse out our clothes,
without removing them.
Sometimes the best infernos are
internal.

“Sexy Love”

Ne-Yo is playing and I’ll segue way into:
I’ve been thinking about you
so let’s play it back
and I’ll tell you what I miss:

————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

Scratched record;
that person doesn’t exist.