The same man who taught me how to love was the same man who gave my mother a black eye and a bloody nose. And now the smell of blood still makes a fist in my throat every time- a smell I can taste, like a mouthful of coins. A smell I can see like red on the face of my most beloved hero. Now I am still trying to figure out what love means at all. I’m afraid to end up anything like my father.
Everything is emptiness and sometimes, we forget to live without fear, sometimes, we remember that fucking is more than an in and out motion. Sometimes love is all those things we’d never expect because we never read or talk about them.
Like the time you held my cock as I pissed, and you smiled up at me trying to maintain your aim.
Or when I told you to hold my wrist and press down along the estuaries of blue, then each darkened inky thread, blanched and disappeared and returned seconds later.
This is the stuff of life.
You love me like a broken jaw
and if I am not hurting, I am having the end of the world for breakfast without the stomach to digest it. The idea of this makes me shake.
Because if love were a shotgun I know you’d use it on me without qualm.
You’d pull it out and fire a slug into my guts to put ME out of YOUR misery.
There are no rituals for this though.
I consider you awhile bemused, and I say:
“I won’t ask any questions but please
put your hands
on your heart,
put your hands
on my heart”
You cry real tears and I marvel at your strength and struggle as full as grief as it is joy. The way your mascara runs down your cheeks like they were tiny animals fleeing from a forest fire. The heave in your sternum, the roll of your rib, the rheum of your purr that left behind its hush though not its shape nor whispers of its heat
just that it was, it is, it will be,