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.

Often when we say ‘heat’ we mean ‘love’,

but our mouths are too shy to make the shape of the word.

I’ll describe it for you, baby. Hm. Imagine a sea

of triangles. It is not blue

or green, but

it is all triangles. Tons of them.

Wait.

Was it squares? Octagons? Dodecahedrons?

I think the shape is that of want

as it breaks on the shore of my eyes,

fragmentary and aching. Pained.

The curve of your neck and then the stark blue of the sky.

She read me a poem and called it love.

I read her a poem and I couldn’t name it,

not ever, not even if I stayed up all night

and then some.

Anyway, I’m tired of the pawing. Come over. Touch me.

Whatever. I need things to be alright now.

Touch me all over. Twist the knife.

Find the softest place and stick it in there, will you?

The things, they never are, and sometimes the hurting is better

than the vastness, better than that terrible plain

stretching out in front of me and saying do you want him to fuck you,

or destroy you? Do you know the difference?

what?

come on, you’ve got to speak up.

i don’t have all day.

what, you want to touch me?

yes, i know, i know. i am so soft and warm.

i know. go on, then. it’s all laid bare before you.

like the salt flats, i have expanses of skin.

i have oodles. take it. it’s fine.

what do i care. the sky ties itself into knots for me

every day. you think i care about your hands?

take it. i know you want to. you are all want,

huh? don’t worry. we all are.

maybe you should kick me out, i say. he chuckles, 

clutching at his throat delicately. yeah? 

why’s that?

i don’t know, i say, and i mean it,

and stop talking. 

it is in the nature of desire to crumple in on itself,

like a butterfly, folded and refolded from a beer label,

sickly and glistening in the light. obscene.

must i describe to you the way it looks, there, now,

on the kitchen counter? must i describe to you the way

his body moved in the dark,

or do you get the picture?

the walking back and forth, the beer bottles, and sheets,

and the smell of him, the ache, an origami spine, 

and the way my body folds, again,

crumpling in on itself,

a butterfly, or a crime scene, or just

an emptiness

waiting

we sit here and pretend. the dampness of the night stretches over us.

oh, i love you. i love you. of course. what a question.

biggest question of all, huh. but we both know

you never needed to ask it.

my body is a promise. a billboard. a bruise.

right here, in the thick of it, baby. you and me. cock the gun.

let's play chicken with our love. let's bite that goddamn bullet

until we're clumsy and drunk with it,

washing up in the bathroom again,

scraping iron out from between our teeth.

i am a dog-girl, chasing down good love

until it disappears over the horizon.

i am a fragmentary beast. around you, my mind scatters.

the yellow on the windowsil. did i water the plants on tuesday

or wednesday

or last summer?

do they hurt at my touch, as you do?

speak your words. destroy me.

give me something other

than the stained-glass, or the white rice,

tasting always too soft, tasting too much

of love. give me what i want, baby.

give me something lethal. you know me.

i cannot live without pressing the tenderness

until it breaks, without leaving

the kettle screaming & forgotten.

i am wide

and open-mouthed,

and ready for whatever is brave enough

to place itself between my jaws.

haunt me. make me afraid.

give me a feeling that I can look in the eyes

and name.