Hour 24 – Part Two: The Only Time I’m Home is With Your Hands On My Hips, Descending

Part Two: The Only Time I’m Home is With Your Hands On My Hips, Descending

 

I typically live at the centerfold of misery, 

some semblance of my mind stapling the pages of my body 

to the rest of these articles of dissociation. 

Yet, at your touch, this body is a home again

for every portion of me that quakes and thunders,

withdrawing all reason to run from the sound. 

Your fingers trace bone, nails trailing with brutal beauty 

simply a moment in their wake and the tension 

brings my skeleton once more to tremble 

at the altar of your home, too. This palace of flesh 

both parallel and perpendicular to mine as we collide. 

Darling, my darling, what happens when our houses 

are one? When they are transferred through 

the rhythm that you beat into my thighs? 

Will I still know my own? Or is your touch the only key

to the threshold of this being? No matter. I beckon you. 

Open.

 

Hour 23 – Why Mozzarella

Why Mozzarella

 

It started with cheese sticks on a Saturday morning

reached on tip-toe from the right-side drawer of the refrigerator. 

Peeled plastic independence on the way to see 

Ariel fall in love just one more time. 

 

Then onto slices with tomatoes

roasted with olive oil dripping over capers

for lunches with my mother. 

Let us indulge, she says, every time she takes a bite. 

 

And cheese sticks, again, on a Saturday morning,

or rather a Friday night that didn’t end. Biting through

and not pulling. Too tipsy to wish for webbing

wrapping around my tongue. 

 

Next onto pizza made with homemade everything

a promise he made to feed and cherish the work

we have done. Our attempt to do better, to fulfil

the tasks we laid before us. 

 

No, back to cheese sticks. Pulling at the strings to find what even might be joy. 

 

Hour 22 – The Only Time My Mind Goes Blank is With Your Hands On My Hips, Descending

The Only Time My Mind Goes Blank is With Your Hands On My Hips, Descending

 

There is a moment before your mouth descends,

the pulse of breath against tender flesh, 

when my body craves for you to mold your name into my skin

to scrape teeth and tongue and engrave initials

like sweethearts do in bark. Mark me. 

Turn my porcelain to raspberries, and raspberries to blue. 

Make me yours. With that laugh scoffed into my center

as my chest quickens, back crescented against the blue sheets. 

Turn me into the moon. Imprinted with a man’s face, 

your face. Make me see stars and echo their calling. 

Can you hear them? Can you hear the night sing to us?

Darling, don’t you know my rupture is the only thing

that can make that go away? So, go a little slower, 

make it last a little longer, before I break.

Before you pull back all the pieces to make me whole.

 

Hour 19 – If My Body Were a Game of Operation

If My Body Were a Game of Operation

 

Racing Thoughts – Remove the race car from my mind and give a motherfucker a rest

 

Too-Small Skull – Try and grasp the bone and force it through a passage that is designed for you to fail

 

Fawn Response Throat – Please, take it. I’d rather fight anyways

 

Broken Humerous – Remove the hilarity I built when I was eight

 

Backbone – You can’t have it. I grew it myself. 

 

Perfect Cervix – According to my gynecologist. It’s only weird if you want it to be. 

 

Dumptruck Ass – Grab a hold. Throw it back. 

 

Eject Button Knees – Give up whenever you want to, my knees do. 

 

Snap, Crackle, and Pop Ankles – Take away the cereal so I don’t have to hear it anymore.

 

Pointed Toes – Sometimes curled, thats more fun. 

 

Play along and build dexterity, all you have to do is take me apart and put me back together again. 

 

Hour 18 – 2021.06.27 23:15PM PST

2021.06.27 23:15PM PST

 

I am, at this moment, horizontal,

my skull rested upon the knee

of a boy I barely know and 

might even be smitten with. 

His worn leather couch is 

cool against my skin, but 

his heat soaks toward me 

like sunbeams finding the pavement.

I wish there were sun,

wish it were morning,

when my thoughts are softer 

with the persuasion of sleep. 

But it is nighttime and 

the taste of my coffee 

burns at my tastebuds

while the game controller 

clicks at his fingertips. 

Next door, there is a party 

droning on and the bass,

the bass radiates through 

the ground, the hardwood floors, 

these cushions, and into my chest. 

I thank him for giving me the right

to know these things. And I 

close my eyes to sleep. 

 

Hour 17 – Atom to Atom

Atom to Atom

after Natalie Diaz

 

I am begging: 

Let me be invisible 

but not lonely. 

Let this body fade 

into the night 

until I am but an atom

somewhere out there 

floating toward the stars

but let there be 

atoms that love me 

within reach

let their energy flow 

through me often enough

that I remember the likeness, 

not of their faces 

but of their souls. 

I am begging. 

Please. 

Let me be loved 

when I am not here 

for you to see.

 

Hour 16 – Intuition

Intuition

 

There is something 

lingering in the space between my hips

that feels a lot like certainty. 

 

I’ve trained my body to act on intuition

but never has it been like this, 

this positive reaction at your sauntering confidence. 

 

Darling, let me tell you this,

this love is born of the same place

where dread lives in me. 

 

That is not to say that I am scared, 

it is simply that this space has birthed 

too much truth for me to ignore. 

Hour 15 – To the Scalp

To the Scalp

 

Would you like it a little shorter?

The scissors are poised for my reaction,

flashing in the reflection like the glint of the sun

and I, ready to photosynthesize myself 

into metamorphosis.

Gods, I should have said yes. 

Let the whisper slither itself out, 

untangling from my innards. 

I should have said yes. 

Should have asked 

for a razor and some faith. 

Let the strands of my 

self-induced femininity 

fall to the linoleum like 

October snowfall. 

Too early, I suppose, 

I had to wait for my season.

 

Now, the buzz beneath my skin

is echoed only by 

the clippers pressed against my scalp. 

A femme settled in 

the space betwixt your lies, 

my chin held higher 

for this levity, this lightness. 

I wish that little one – 

the one who shakes their heavy head

and lowers their eyes in smothered shame – 

could see me now. 

 

I still find remnants of that distant child, 

long hairs woven into sweaters well-worn, 

and know it is time for them 

to find a new place to call home. 

 

Hour 14 – Dear Christopher Robin

Dear Christopher Robin

 

I wish I had been stuffed and left in your gentle hands. 

That I was raised like Eyore or Piglet. 

Unafraid to tell you when the darkness came.

 

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