Jason's Poetry

My body, like a moleskin notebook, opened to your touch, my pages covered in ink. Was it too much to read? To Process? Did you know that I have a friend named Jake and his handwriting is in here, too? Or was it after I told you after you said “your trauma is seeping out of you” after you put your hand on my knee and asked, “Is this okay?” After you asked “can I kiss you?” after “can I touch you?” after you handed me a silver kiss after I cried and told you I loved you and you came out in your bathrobe. after you asked me “haven’t you had casual sex before” after we held onto each other in your room during the quiet winter nights. After you told me you didn’t want to fuck me anymore.  

We kissed, me pressed against you, entangled ontop your blankets, the wind outside howled and the trees shook. My body opened beneath your touch. I traced my fingers against your skin, said “I’m so so lucky” and kissed your bruises. You never said thank you; You didn’t say anything. You beat mine purple, stuck your fists inside my stomach, twisted and pulled. I was bleeding. I was bleeding. You threw me outside, told me I was being ridiculous. You still have my insides. I want them back. Please, just give them back.

Is it possible that one person can make love while the other fucks? I spoon-fed you my love and you slurped it down, mouthfuls before you screamed that it was too hot; spit it out, pushed me away, said you didn’t love me. Said you just wanted a fuck, a quick taste, a drop on your tongue. But you said you were hungry and I had a spoon, a bowl, and my love. You were so cold but I didn’t have a sweater to your liking. I guess that is where I went wrong. And now I have a wound the size of your fist gaping in my chest.