EXHALING CATALYSTS

This fog –
You could cut it with a sharp enough blade.
There’s a sword of Damocles where the sun used to quiver –
It is no more than a kitchen knife
In the hand of a stranger.

I’m breathing in the rust
And gulping down the smoke –
One hand held tight against my stomach,
Another at my throat.

Don’t move. Don’t speak.
Swallow your pride,
Amongst other things,
Because I swallowed all of my tomorrows.

Breathless,
I clamp my eyelids closed,
And maybe the sunrise
Will melt away the fog
That has been my oxygen
Since once upon a September.

The hand swoops down,
The point hits the board;
The blade slices our lives
And all our crossed fingers
And baited breath
Turns to
Dust.

The wicked bits of us— the warped, the wrong—
we wish to feel her break. Lord, how we long
to help her harvest all the lust she’s sown;
to crush her bird-bone frame beneath our own;

To pound her pretty pelvic bones to dust
and hear her scream hitch at each reaming thrust;
to force our straining mass deep to her core,
and hear her hoarsely begging us for more.

We pity her naïveté; her lot,
so willingly cast down with us to rot,
to writhe forever, wrapped in daemon fire
for no less great an evil than desire.

Still yet, our pity wans as she begins to weep,
For Hell hath ne’er housed such company to keep.

I.

“Is your name spelled with one n or two?”

We collided while climbing the
stairs at the same
time.

“Do you want one of my beers?”

Two chairs turned to face
each other, your hands on your
thighs, fingers tapping.

“Do you want to sleep out here, or in my room?”

The first kiss, your tongue was
curious, and your breath was
warm.

“Did you know William S. Burroughs shot his wife
while playing William Tell?”

We are walking into a restaurant and
you accidentally kicked my shin
when we sat down.

“Can I fuck you here?”

We were wet and the hot water was
running out and you came without
telling me first.

“Just calm down, I love you, okay?”

Taxis passed and the rain slapped
your face and I wanted to run
but I held your hand instead.

“I wish you’d stop acting so fucking crazy.”

I ripped every shirt off every hanger and
left the front door wide open when
I left.

“I’d give anything for you to come back.”

I came back I came back I came back and
nothing changed at all except your hands
on me were never so soft.

II.

“Two n’s.”

Wobbly knees and shaking hands
and a smirk or two in
your direction.

“Do you like Brand New?”

I sipped on your cheap beer
and wondered what color
your eyes were exactly.

“Give me some blanket.”

I did not sleep that entire night
because I was afraid of closing my
eyes.

“Did you know Sylvia Plath killed herself with her
children asleep in the next room?”

You didn’t order anything and picked
all of the fries off of my
plate.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

You paid for the morning after pill
but I had to catch three buses
to get it.

“What did you say?”

I should have said I love you I love you
I love you and I should have kept
loving you.

“I wish you actually gave a fuck about me.”

I know where I went that night and I
know what I did and I don’t know
if I’d change it if I could.

“If I leave this time, I can’t come back.”

There are 842 miles between us
but the distance is not what
keeps us apart.

When she was happy,
she would spend hours braiding her hair;
intricately weaving each lock

and tress together,
tucking in loose strands so she could
look as blissful as she felt.

When she was angry and
her blood boiled with rage melded with disbelief,
she would push all of her hair behind

as violet veins traced down
the nape of her neck
and across her forehead.

And when she was broken and the world had
ripped her apart; her long, endless hair
was a curtain that shielded her

from the rest of the world;
enfolding herself in a heap of
gloom and hollow melancholy.

Whilst you dream of him all night,
he dreams of her.
He makes your stomach drop and your chest flutter,
she makes his do the same.
You check your phone for messages from him,
he waits for messages from her.
When you feel like crying because he doesn’t need you,
he has his head in his hands because she doesn’t need him.
You only want him, he only wants her.
How frustrating it is when you adore somebody
with all your heart and soul,
and you watch them being disregarded by another,
what a waste of feelings
when they can’t be shared
with people who feel the same as you do.
Why can fate not have two people love each other equally?
Why does cupid always hit one with full force and then forget to aim for the other?

I know that I have poured rum into my blood
and made a mess of my words for you — used them carelessly,
picked out sloppy letters and tossed them your way,
said simple, honest things I would not say
if I were sober.

I worry that if I am clear-headed and open-hearted,
parts of you might spill from me: seeping, gushing; and god—
it is already hard enough to choke you down
and keep you there:
wrapped up and out of sight.

I do not know how to speak candidly—
to be frank, to be true, to be straightforward
without making a mess of myself.