I hate these. I hate these. My brain can’t process anything that my stomach won’t churn. I feel truth. It sucks--
“I want to know everything about you,” my lips spin in my mouth, “I just don’t know how to ask…”
Honesty cannot. It can’t. Five dancers under the hot light know bodies in a way they don’t know face:
One hand holds my chin before it hits the ground. Boom. The dancers jump into the center of their prop-bed.
My chest beats in the shape of a poem I’ve been trying all day to get memorized:
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else
Hauls me through air--
Thighs, hair;
They break in their heels. No absolute movement they’ve done has helped me not love him--
From this platform my feet can’t reach the ground, I’m definitely flying and it feels true, if only they hit me with a leg-gust
I wouldn’t have to be so honest, no, my mouth tastes like it can’t speak. There’s nothing real about saying what you don’t want to feel--
Five dancers under the hot light can’t see me. I taste invisible. This is the absolute:
I’d rather not touch you. I don’t care to know what wanting someone more feels like. I’d rather not know you at all. Four dancers in these lights will see me, one won’t. I’m under the impression that in the darkness my bones glow, my skin reeks, you still wouldn’t hit me.
“I want to know.” My teeth burn, “everything about you.” but the cold air freezes your thoughts, I continually make grand mistakes that feel like decisions, I hate these shrooms, I feel truth, my lungs spread my ribs like chest-wings ah--
White
Godiva, I unpeel--
Dead hands, dead
In the deceiving darkness without answers I will stay.
11/19/19 6:40PM