confetti

it’s a birthday party. it’s a celebration.

everything is fine and nothing hurts.

you blow bubbles into the air from your sugar-crusted mouth and

god laughs, tosses a scooby snack into it, open and waiting.

where’s the pain, honey,

where is it? can you touch it for me?

tell me if it’s gooey, or tingling - is it cruel?

is it slow? hot? rabid?

does it get stuck between your teeth like a candy-apple,

red and glistening and sweet beyond compare?

I want to say it’s alright, baby!

it’s all good here, here,

have your cake, eat it too, I’ll give you whatever -

you’re all I want and the rest is confetti,

but the truth is I’m a terrible baker.

I’ve never made a cake in my life

that didn’t turn out burned

and bitter.

we are like the tails of salamanders

still wrapped around each other even when severed from our bodies.

the real truth is,

there is no cake. or rather,

I’m the cake, I’m vanilla and aching and

all I want, just this once, just for a little while, please,

is to be inside of you.