The one I crave isn’t aware of me.
The man I long to hold,
my lustful thoughts lodged
in his belly like hunger pains
forgotten, forgets me.
So I become my heart’s curator
of insignificant, seeing love
this way, through blotted out clouds
and a tenuous contract that I’d never
break. The weight of words growing
heavier with the passing of each year.
Other men perform hard labor
trying to win my wilted hand.
I wish for the hush of his name.
I imitate the motions.
Living means dancing
like I know the choreography.
Then no one notices
I’m with the wrong partner.
Even now I still love the unbearable,
the unbridgeable distance
of the choreographer of my destruction.
I strike matches against my chest.
I peel back my flesh
and wear my the despair out
on a Saturday night.
Languidly, I wobble around
in my heels of suburpia
I write to dreg my nonsensical senses.
Shouldn’t art and love destroy us?
Burn through us?
Dark body of my soul fall through
this lonesome space.
You are the ache in my ribcage.
Come read my dreams back to me
on crumpled sheets of paper.
My heart its own Museum of
Unnatural History. I can no longer
separate desire from truth.