i should be doing anything other than what i'm doing and yet
here i sit, doing this, going back and forth between
a possibility and a curse,
moving my hands across your back, laying down
my dagger, moving my hips across your belly
and i think i could be doing anything other than this.

this,
this that defines us. this that makes our skin
turn inside out when we see each other, this
this that takes a black eye and turns it green

and somewhere along the way, we forgot to bury
our faces in-between and the things that spill forth, the
things that cause women to bleed whenever they see us touch,
that cause women to paint your name across their engorged bellies,
this is why they really do hate you even though it comes across as
humor, but this is why they can't hate me because the truth is what you
see and what i have written across my neck

and i know, i really do know,
that i should be doing anything other than this

this that keeps pulling a knife out of my back,
this that penetrates veins i keep bandaged
and this is not why i am here, this is not why
you keep watching me squirm

but this is not something i can define
for anyone on the outside.

11/07/2011

Author's Note: pure crap, i think

Posted on 11/07/2011
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