On pointed toes, reaching up feels like falling

Here in the little silence

your bones are medicine like methadone

for heroin. And I break,

and wander,

and land solidly in your wake. 

Hoarfrost and keyboard strokes 

look the same when the sun is low. 

I want to be punished 

and glorified. 

And I wonder if this feeling 

will ever betray me;

this feeling, the one that I planted solidly

in my chest. 

There's a part of me 

that wants to know 

what it would be like 

to be the villian. 

Give me a name like terror 

and call me yours. 

In truth, I am a white lie 

that you tell yourself at night

to romanticize the discomfort

that grows inside. 

I wish I knew how to satisfy you. 

I want you to take me

over and over

until the roof of my mouth

is painted with you. 

Until I give in

completely. 

And can fucking breathe again. 

here, a hollow house

I had a dream of pulling sticks from my mouth, then

A whole pencil. 

I woke up heaving. 

And wanting. 

When disgust seduces desire 

and the universe cracks open,

my body floods with the electricity 

of old and new wounds. 

Lately I've been holding your anger 

in pockets of my kidneys, 

against the walls of my uterus, 

and down through my tailbone. 

I release your rage in little doses

that appear as:

emptying the trash,

folding the blankets,

becoming my grandmother. 

when your face is brokered by shadow, you disappear.

maybe i no longer know who you are. 

this feeling is tranquil

like lower case letters

on a birth certificate. 

i thought i wanted to know you

until i had lost breath. 

But here i am.

And there you are. 

there's something that feels petty 

in all this pleasure.