I can only hold what I cannot speak
Listen,
there are so many of you in this microscopic world.
She, the first one. Will always out-shine all of you
by virtue, only, of being the first.
And he, and he, and he.
And that one who went crazy.
And my boys, my sons,
I remember when I've met you the first time.
I remember anybody I've held in my arms
as they slept.
My sons who are sleeping with the sun now,
I see your faces with immaculate detail.
And he, my first sea
who fucked me again the night I came home
bruised and beat, who I let fuck me again though
I knew he was a habitual liar and later hearing
from the faery that this hurt her to anger
(these were different types of firsts)
And then, a Real sea,
the sea I began to like and now love
only after the fucking.
Who has never hurt me romantically
though he does not believe me.
Who has hurt me repeatedly
with his tales of the dead
(and that time he fucked my sister, but that was not romantic)
And,
A secret sea.
A secret because he was good to me.
And, a gigantic unattainable fucking ocean
who was from my ultimate past, who stayed
with god and told me if I had stayed, too,
I'd be happy. And I'd be his wife.
(I wept because I've become too complicated to go back)
And,
the unbelievable one,
who I do not share with those
who have not seen me live it.
And then... I forget.
After that I forget.
It was a short climb up from the plummit,
but high enough to throw myself back down
and break just enough to die there for days.
I want to die for days.
The immortal who was damned to have his intestines
pulled and ripped and eaten of him by vultures
never dead but always dying.
The difference is, I would die at the end.
Okay,
I've made it to the morning but it's still night,
It's still LIVID, it's still FAMINE
It's still haunting
in the exact
same
patterns.
IN THE EXACT SAME PATTERNS.
There's a fourth this time, at least,
and the cards are chariot.
I've tested my luck,
and I haven't even began to test my luck yet.
It isn't fluffy.
It isn't fuzzy.
That's you on the inside.
That's you when you can't sleep and
it's already been days.
That's you after a million years of solitude
(that's me too)
Though,
strangers have been particularly fascinating these days; some,
even, who I may know by name but who are still authentically strange.
A stranger, we've exchanged one interaction:
I suggested he read me a piece of original prose,
and I got an autobiographical porno.
I read him a burst of a poem on sex, and then said
I had to get off the phone to smoke a cigarette.
I wondered if it felt like I took something from him.
(Sometimes I am the stranger who gets taken)
It isn't fluffy.
It isn't fuzzy.
That's only you on the inside.
