Sandpaper

You sandpaper woman
with your broken-glass hands:
Every time you touch me, I bleed.

Burning up

Sometimes, I forget to breathe.
I only remember when my lips start turning blue
and you ask me why I feel icy
in June.
Once, you told me you loved me
and I watched your face fall when I said nothing
in return.
What I wanted to say was I love you so much that there's a burning in my soul and there are "I love you's" dancing in my body in smoke-ring banners
but I had no air
not a single breath left
to voice it
and in that moment, I was afraid to breathe
because I learned in science class
that oxygen only makes the fire burn hotter
and I was already a furnace--
only one breath away
from burning up
completely. 

Happenstance

I am terrified of when I will happen.
Not of what will happen to me, not
of what I must endure
but of what I am going to inflict
and affect.
I am going to happen to someone.
I want to happen hard and fast
and be lasting
but what if
I am soft like water
and happen like mist
without the hardness of rain
without its stinging insistence
what if I happen
fleetingly
like dew
like vapor
what if I don't happen at all?
What I know is that I can survive.
We default to survival, to endurance.
I am terrified not of defaulting
but of not happening --
of being embryonic
and unrealized.
and I am terrified of happening also
because I know
the effects
of being happened upon.
Perhaps the most terrifying of all
is living
with the intolerable pain
of paradoxical wishing.

Namesake

The way I say your name is different
from the way I say anyone else's.
It sounds fuller, rounder...
as though my tongue and teeth are
trying to ball it up and push it
towards the back of my throat because
your name belongs inside me, not exposed
and in the air
where anyone can use it.

Post War

My body is a post-war wasteland
there are mines that explode when you run
your fingers over my skin
and there are graves of burning men and women
planted in half-moon craters across my arms
and on Sundays when I wash my hair
my knees are suddenly wet with red
John Frieda said the dye wouldn't fade for two weeks
but really, who could ever predict
sudden death
or stop gunshot bleeding
John Frieda didn't know shit
nor did any John ever who said
"It'll be okay"
You asked me why I don't talk to you anymore
I won't tell you
because telling means talking and talking
is not something that dead people do.
I always wondered why I could never
bear to hear you sing
and then I realized, yesterday
that no one ever appreciated
sing-song cruelty
Who ever wanted music
in a gas chamber?

The Love Electric

I run the barbell of my tongue ring against my teeth

as a jailer would his baton on prison bars

and intimidate my voice into

giving up your name.

I demand the right to call my attorney!

You cannot make me

spill

I am going to hold on

to your name as though

it is prayer

to speak your name is to take it in vain

to write it down is to document it

there is a structural deficit in my medium of love.

I cannot speak of it nor write of it

there is an electrical transmission

perhaps I can email you my love with no attachments

Are you sure you want to send? There is no attachment included in this email.

Can you read between the lines? There are no lines to speak of

I fell asleep with shreds of paper in my teeth

fortune cookie futures 

all with your name on it.

I chew on remnants of hearts and souls and soul mates

and all the achy-tooth promises that you made 

when you were seventeen.

there's a space between 

what i say and what i mean to say

and no words to fill it. 

Maybe it's an electrical transmission

I'll leave it blank.

You can read between the lines. 

Maybe.

Adam

You are a bad writer.

You can't articulate, honey. I can see the words lodge in your throat. Every time you say you love me, your adam's apple swells

how dare you steal my apple adam. What would Satan say?

It's my apple. You try to talk around me and mine. Your words aren't sharp enough, nor acidic enough nor strong enough

to dislodge my apple. Damned to an eternity of suffering...yet here you wear my sin in your throat.

You told me you cannot cry

because your throat closes up and strangles your tears

what if I told you that my conscience lives serpentinely

and tightens its coils around your neck

every time I swell with guilt.