Sunday, August 15, 2010


Has loving ever choked you deep
like swallows of hot cocoa,
burned you from lips to belly,
briefly sweet upon tongue,
then cooling quickly,
making you hate you took in
too much, too soon
yet left you compelled to sip
from yielding cup again
and again?

Each song we loved to
makes me hate walls,
and windows,
and you.

Alone in bed,
heart suffocated by your smile,
I hum in pitch with self-loathing,
and this love still burns me
from lips
to belly.

I hate most mornings
so I cuss the spiteful sun
until it disappears
behind buildings filled
with empty spaces.

I curse the first time I kissed you,
pressed hard against
wooden door.

Some nights I cuss often.

I am not perfect.
I hate these faults
I have adopted,
but they comfort me
when I am tortured.

But I did love you
like waking from nightmares,
like photos of the deceased
reminding us of what we've forgotten,
like laughter,
like touch,
like molten drink.

Swallowed you with abandon
held you gently,
like hot cup in hand
and I know you
remember too,
know you can not forget
the distance
from my mouth
to navel.

That was not love
nor hot drink,
but it did, at times,
quench your thirst.

You cried when the nights
ended too early,
you having pleased me
and I placed my lips
upon your tears.

It lacked the romance
I'd seen in the movies
I've forgotten the plots to.

Just felt empty,
like you drank too much of me,
left me dry.

You wet of lip
and full of my essence,
without thought to refill me.

I told you then of the time
I was 6.

Knelt my scraped,
chubby knees
upon pine needles/
hid from Mother's eyes,
whispered to the ground,

"I want the world to die,"

before I yanked cocoons
from the tree,
like the stanzas I pulled
from the inspiration
of your lips and thighs.

You failed to grasp
the connection of

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