,
November 25, 2009
premature ejaculation
we skip stages of undress. you have no routine, i have no rituals, just your nakedness and mine. the stretchmarks on your stomach glisten from this angle; the moonlight illuminates which paths i must take to worship you. i turn you around, take you from behind.
the cats woke you up this morning. it wasn't me this time. it hasn't been me in a long time. i'm not in my pajamas because you wanted to wear them. it's obvious how much weight you've lost when i can just tug once on the pajama shorts and watch them slip and fall into a crumpled mess at your feet. it's just so easy. but you don't like that I enjoy this. do you even know what you're still doing in my bed?
you bite through mangoes, eat the peel, and suck on the flesh without finesse. i used to eat my mangoes in naked, even slices. i used to enjoy the soft and slick delicate feel of it in my mouth. it wasn't long before i learned how to devour a mango in a way that didn't require grace and care. i didn't know that i could eat a mango like you do; i didn't know that i would enjoy it more.
the bedroom door rattles when i knock. you're reading a book. and then you're not once i sit on the bed. but i know you're pretending to because your eyes skate over the same line over and over again. i pretend too. i pretend not to notice and stare at the wall behind you. i focus on the peeling paint, the cracks and the dents you've made, the small words i wrote once. your landlord hires a handful of men to repair your house and i greet them at the door with a smile.
I squint at the line of crystals before I snort them off your unsteady palm. Your hand lingers in the air when you say that I'm a professional. I almost slap you, and maybe I would have if my nose didn't start to bleed. You just stare at the slow trickle of my blood, watch it spill over my lip and slip into my mouth. It tastes bitter, I tell you.
We finish an entire bottle of tequila in an hour. Your mother's bed is soft against my knees, your body is soft between my knees, the pillow, too, is soft against my face. I don't want to see what you look like. I vomit in my hand when you unbuckle my belt.
the cats woke you up this morning. it wasn't me this time. it hasn't been me in a long time. i'm not in my pajamas because you wanted to wear them. it's obvious how much weight you've lost when i can just tug once on the pajama shorts and watch them slip and fall into a crumpled mess at your feet. it's just so easy. but you don't like that I enjoy this. do you even know what you're still doing in my bed?
you bite through mangoes, eat the peel, and suck on the flesh without finesse. i used to eat my mangoes in naked, even slices. i used to enjoy the soft and slick delicate feel of it in my mouth. it wasn't long before i learned how to devour a mango in a way that didn't require grace and care. i didn't know that i could eat a mango like you do; i didn't know that i would enjoy it more.
the bedroom door rattles when i knock. you're reading a book. and then you're not once i sit on the bed. but i know you're pretending to because your eyes skate over the same line over and over again. i pretend too. i pretend not to notice and stare at the wall behind you. i focus on the peeling paint, the cracks and the dents you've made, the small words i wrote once. your landlord hires a handful of men to repair your house and i greet them at the door with a smile.
I squint at the line of crystals before I snort them off your unsteady palm. Your hand lingers in the air when you say that I'm a professional. I almost slap you, and maybe I would have if my nose didn't start to bleed. You just stare at the slow trickle of my blood, watch it spill over my lip and slip into my mouth. It tastes bitter, I tell you.
We finish an entire bottle of tequila in an hour. Your mother's bed is soft against my knees, your body is soft between my knees, the pillow, too, is soft against my face. I don't want to see what you look like. I vomit in my hand when you unbuckle my belt.
November 24, 2009
The human heart has a chaotic pattern.
November 20, 2009
to avoid a brimming void
if everything is a distraction, then what am I really being distracted from?
a bullshit restlessness.
