1961

look. I know I matter to you in some way. it glows a little in the back of your neck when I talk to you. and you smile. a lot. so much that it burns my tongue. and I can’t look at you. because I don’t want you to know. so I’ll just tell my memory card.

when I’m not thinking about running my fingernails along the skin of your back, I replay the image of you telling me your dreams. not expecting me to interpret them. just allowing me to glimpse through the keyhole and into your mind. I think of you, in the solitary wasteland of your subconscious, sand stuck in the soles of your boots, saltwater spray drying on your eyelashes, standing wordless with open thoughts before the great unknown beast of the sea. it’s beached. there’s no one but you and the gelatinous shell of a once living creature.

when I’m not thinking about getting stuck between you and a hard place, I think maybe I should draw you again. maybe this time, I can really memorize you. maybe this time, I’ll become a little more like you. and maybe you’ll remember me.

I am so fucking fascinated by you. by how God could have managed to piece so much wisdom and wonder into a puzzle so seemingly ordinary as you.

I want you to grind into me and burn me out from both ends.

I imagine how it would feel to sit in your lap and trace my finger along every visible vein and artery in your arm, press my thumb into your wrist and find where our hearts drum the same. you exist, and that’s what’s intoxicating to me — that’s why I wish I could count your heartbeat and let your stubble scratch my palm, why I wish we could lie naked in the desert and wait for the sun to find its way back to the morning. you are at once grounding and overwhelming. just imagining the bones in your fingers, the tendons in your neck sets my blood panting for air. just because you have a body. because you exist at the same time as I do. because our timelines merged for a moment in eternity flung in the air and you, for whatever reason, let me see a little bit of who you are.

Virginity

I know that fingers against your skin are like a thousand pennies hovering just above the floor.
I know breath against your neck weights down in all the bottom places of all your organs.
I know that in theory, you like this. But in reality, you’re paralyzed by it.

You think, what’s wrong with me? Even some asexuals can manage to have sex.

There are things more important than this. When your lungs were cleared and you took your first breath,
your parents didn’t say, “Listen, she’ll matter when she can fuck someone.”
Your worth is measured a thousand times deeper and higher
than the scale of your heartbeat when you’re aroused.

Emily.
Myself.
It’s okay
to be afraid
of this.

Being confused, not knowing what to do when faced with sex —
or even knowing what to do but not not knowing how to make yourself do it —
that doesn’t make you fragile, or brittle, or a coward, or whatever else you tell yourself you are
in a futile attempt to hurl yourself over that wall.
Remember that patience is a virtue.
It’s okay to not be ready.

Girls

closes her lips and closes her eyes
shields her thoughts from a tear in the skies

every love she knows
disintegrated
by the imprint on her lips

and she is a fly
stuck fast in honey
brushing against her, near her He hovers
but even His words
are lost in the sheets
between her and a gentler lover

Blasphemy

I do not think I have ever belonged to someone so completely and unmistakably. You–you dissect my body, dig through me as though you are reaching into my life and renewing the fire of the ashes of my cremation. I am gripping your shoulders because I want to meld my skin to yours, and your hands burn something between my thighs… your black handprint, searing your mark of hell into an innocent place, and you should not be here, you are a demon and you are dragging me into the pit. No… not now — now my concept of God is shoved to the foot of the bed to make room for our pleasure, in the pages of a book I used to love. In my tremor beneath you, I watch that book — it is only a book, right now, only some long-forgotten concept, and good riddance. The blasphemy inside me doesn’t matter here. Your skin matters here, your body that I wish would travel through my own and into my spine and then into my intangibility — oh, but you are also tangible, and that is also good. Our rhythm matters here.