sometimes you come to bed very late and hug me from behind and
i know you spent an enchanting childhood in poland, just before
and after the wall fell: somewhere in there lie the deaths of
two fathers you've mentioned (only in passing) accidentally --
a monster in the making.

i am mad at you for doubting my choice to paint my high tops
yellow, or for being too busy taking photographs of strangers to
even notice how pretty i look this evening -- even when i've put
the kettle on and made you dinner. you don't even bother asking
these days and i often try in vain to hold back sighs -- knowing
you will feel bad, humor me, and still come to bed very late.

my achilles keeps his head up and his back to the wall, and never
invites me into his tent. even though i am no prize you haul me
over your shoulder and toss me to the bed laughing maniacally
(because i am nervous in these situations where i'm helpless and
intensely small), and i say that i hate you with a smile on my
face.

unable to escape i try hitting you, batting at you, curling into
little balls that ought to incite some kind of pity, but to no
avail: often i end up unable to breathe for your weight crushing
my fragile body, or reversed and trying to crush you in return,
fingers still tangled in your scalp.

you are a ridiculous person, and often awkward, and mostly i wish
you would cease these wrestlings long enough to notice a desire
for tenderness, and rest your head atop my jagged sternum and
feel the rough beat of my fist-sized heart -- the surprise alone
would leave me truly defenseless, but i may laugh ferociously.

04/28/2008

Author's Note: meant to be read in conjunction with Elliot Thaler's "she loves every minute of it." (though paling in comparison).

"as long as my heart and my fists are the same size, i know that if i keep loving, i'll have to keep fighting." -Maigread Coughlan

Posted on 04/28/2008
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