Samfiftyfour

A poet That lacks Any demons Is a lunatic Who speaks For no reason, Just as those Who exist Without hardship Have never seen The face of God.

I was sixteen, you were getting up tipsy contentment at the end of a perfect mediterranean feasting

on the Byzantine gold and blue of Valletta’s harbor, sunset staining the sky over sandstone ramparts turned a cheeky sort of color

tart, as if emboldened by the impermanence of tables abandoned for the passeggiata

lost in the sea’s wine glass, you didn’t notice the swallow left behind

a cupped promise of flight poised in the question of time

before waves of invaders would drown the mesa, colonize its leftovers,   smooth and smother all giving

of lip — just like that, I became an insurgent , spied

on you, witless, lost in the far gazing, as men brought up to be masters are wont to do,  thinking they taste the cherry sun in an ocean while I,  no longer dutiful, downed it in a single stolen gulp

Why did this story get run with these criminals’ school photos, where on the same day, same situation, the article of another group of burglars featured their mug shots? (source)

Same day. Same channel. Same crime. Same author.

So why weren’t mugshots good enough for the white guys who got arrested?  Who already looks guilty before their trial?  Which story plants the seed into a potential jury pool that this is a group of good kids versus this is a group of criminals?

There’s a warmth in others, it’s so pervasive;

I can’t wait to partake in, but I can’t take it.

Even when I appear to fit in, I feel unfitting;

Toothpaste at the breakfast table; off taste.

Out of place; I’m a comma after your space;

Then a strained period before you stopped.

Incessantly writing over, woven in your lines.

Ghost notes; composed of self; I quote myself.

Mama, don’t hate me; I’m a broken home.

Baby, don’t hate me; I’m your plant to grow.

Flagrant risk to all the rules of engagement;

Veneered sophistication; I’m a tangled mess.

Cream filled dreams of cafés, pâtés, canapés.

Unreachable, away; French signs I cannot say.

I must have read them all a hundred times;

The first time I had sex I felt like the most beautiful girl in the world. I was finally a part of something - someone was a part of me. And that morning was euphoria, walking on clouds, turning metaphorical cartwheels along the ground Could this be love? Maybe.

The second time I bled on your sheets and apologized profusely. You said it was fine and I believed you. This was fine Sex was fine It would get better though, right?

The third time I wasn’t in the mood but you were so why not But it kind of felt like an opportunity I didn’t want to lose rather than something I actually wanted to do.

The fourth time was after I had decided that I loved you I did I do and I was so close so fucking close but not yet, not now, and you fell asleep with your hands on my pubes.

The fifth time we were drunk. You bent me over the back seat of your car and fucked me till I couldn’t feel a thing. The word ‘no’ sat heavy on my tongue until I swallowed it whole because a word like that didn’t have a place in this situation. You see, I loved you, this was love, right? Taking your sense of self-worth and twisting it to fit his sexual satisfaction is love, right? That’s fair, right? That’s what you do, that’s what they tell you to do. That’s what I did, at least.

Maybe I have commitment issues I never see things through I’m just not very good at endings - I start but never finish, I never finish. But who cares, right? That’s not the point All you’ve got to do All you want to do is give part of yourself away You’ve got enough See this skin? I live in this skin. But here, take it, take it for a day - take my body, take my soul - There’s too much of it anyway.

Maybe when I’m left with nothing but broken bones I’ll realise that my body is my home - not some cheap motel room.

And maybe I can rebuild myself out of the words I once decided to swallow.

You cannot read me All you see is something to fuck but you lucked out because my body is a library, these words are free and so much more valuable than my cunt.

I do not need you, my sexual fulfilment does not depend on you.