I want to push him away. I want to shove and kick and run in the opposite direction. The thought of closeness and vulnerability is nauseating. A constant and violent monologue of reasons why I mustn’t let him close. And yet, ever so gently, he will call. He will always call. He will force his presence upon me in the only way he knows how: with love.
Is this it. Is this what they call love? Is it that I can watch you stack supermarket milk for longer than I should. Is it because I could think of no better face but to see yours floating amongst a big crowd somewhere, hoping that you’d run into me? Is it that I can trace the past lives we have shared in your eyes? Or is it because the first bouquet of flowers you gave me was a packet of “flour” in return for the bueno I gave you. You said “it’s the thought that counts”. You are so ironic. And I’m completely infatuated. Totally fucked.
blistered heart
rubbed the wrong way
broken neck
and shattered eyes
blind and stupid from
too much love
my vapid muscle
aches
from self mutilation
I don’t want
it
anymore
so
raise the curtains
and smile down
the stairs
blow me a smoke ring
and I’ll jump through the hoop
just to
get away
from
you
on cold days like this. your soft voice helps and I lie in bed facing away from the television
and listen
