she tried my courage....

There is a particular sort of anger; a specific brand of frustration that only comes with the utmost imploding longing one body has for another. There is a sort of violence that cannot be justified with anything but desire, holding a contorted kind of beauty in its arms even as palms turn to fists in the defensive stance. Nourishing the want. The need for the touch, for the feel and the rush of the skin, even as blood flows forth in veins, surfacing through layers of silk, of tissue, of the protective layer of heightened emotion. Movement deeming us doomed even as we resign ourselves to the futility of such armor.
There is a sort of cruelty that only comes from the depth of jealousy. Resilient entities of hate that can only be measured in how much love there ever was. At the end of the day, it’s the same ocean. It’s the same being of water, of air, making its way in and out of my lungs even as you seep pore by pore into my subconscious. Making your way, like wounded insects into my bloodstream, into my thoughts, like just another bout of electricity.

Looking for any sort of a division. A clear marking spot for anything separate that makes me my own. My fingers on my skin claim me back into the infinite of my mind, even as your hands jerk the thought of independence away from my most private of to-do lists.

Feeling new joints crawling out of my spine, wishes unfolding into wings near my shoulder blades even as the cinnamon scented chains chafe my wrists raw, allowing me to see the my multicolored blood running loose, flowing thick like paint and drawing fate on the kitchen floor like so many truths that I never wanted to hear.

But even as I smudge the pools of paint, of my own bleeding veins from the tiles and the cracks, I kiss my fingers clean. As if they weren’t just another murder weapon waiting to be let loose. And write my story in the walls around me. Around my mind, made out of bone. And as the inside of my skull becomes another controversial gallery, I ask for one more moment of forgiveness. From all those critics in the newspaper demanding the closure of the magnificent masterpiece.


Every single word that has ever been uttered is playing dress up in the minds of martyrs, laughing like a poltergeist let loose in the imaginations of the hopeful. Great literature and eloquence are the new masoquist’s perfection and hide myself in claws of words that resemble screams but quietly walk to the exit in high heels and an elegant nightgown.

The blades bought for me. I mean for you, for the entire population women. Laying on the coffee table, next to the wine and crackers. Waiting to be broken free, used up, raped free of newness. Blades turned lips turned sweat turned light switch. And the engine running in the dark, a specific perfume wafting through the car.


And there was nothing else to it.

Than one full revolution.