she wants me to tell her a story
one full of dreams and hopes
white knights and fairytale fantasies
but I don't know those stories
I know of hurt and sorrow
sin and sex in and out of closets
tears and healing and what's for dinner
why is this house not clean
and are you going to answer that
with your straight gay face
tone it down bury yourself invisible
claw through your own heart
to surface breathe stuck in lungs
and sweat and fear
these are the stories that haunt me
trip off my tongue bullets and fury
she begs for a story
I warn her with my straight gay face
that my stories are full of guts and vulnerability
lost loves and fallen angels
heartstrings pulled to distortion distraction
shipwrecks, siren songs pit bulls and pirates
that take more than they give
pull you off center scatter your thoughts
break you and pisses on your future
while kissing you on the mouth
some would call them demons
dress them in colors all dark
and fangs shrouded in hind sight
they descend these stories sometimes
from place inside me where I hide
them and they surface all jack in the box
knock me off metaphorical horses
and punch people in their faces
I tell her all the ugly
pick at all the scabs let her watch
the ooze and glitter pull open my chest
show her my soft broken places
the punctures and broken promises
I bare myself naked show her my geography
highlighting the rough terrain trace my
stretch marks connect the dots of every mole
every blemish all the dirt and I wait for her
to walk away show me her polite retreating back
tether myself to the earth so her evacuation
will not leave me depleted
she surprises me
pulls open her chest shows me her
soft broken places guides my hand inside
invites me to stay tells me that those stories
the ones full of dreams and hopes
white knights and fairytale fantasies
without the hurt and helplessness
that real people feel in real time have
always frightened her
she wants the story where the two
heroins bring their hurt together heal each other
in the telling rediscover the beats in their hearts
unashamed of who knows
kissing in the light and pride
holding even when they both are accustomed
to letting go and disappointment and shame
I tell her I don't know that story
she tells me she doesn't know that story either
figures we can write one together
and gives me her pen
1 comment:
Woman, you have a way of throwing curve balls at my head in the last few lines of your poems...
"I tell her I don't know that story
she tells me she doesn't know that story either
figures we can write one together
and gives me her pen"
Yep. That. You did it again.
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