Women – Charles BukowskiI
Some of us are hard to love. We doubt and push till your will is broken. We don’t intend to, but if we were our intentions, we’d be labeled “danger, do not love.” We crave that which shudders at our touch because that is what we know about love. But we are not hard to all forms of love. We open our hearts to the poetry of touch, haikus recited between thighs, the brave seek our centers.
The brave stay long enough to notice the myriad of women I have been. I was the woman that dreamed of being like roots. Not in the sense that they spread over large distances but in the sense that their heart was in one place. This version wanted to stay, I would stay in a burning house because that is where my heart was. The other version wanted to leave. There was a fire beneath my feet that made me incapable of staying in one place. I found love and celebrated it by planning my escape. But there is a version that wants nothing. Sometimes amidst all this fire, I sit and dream of nothing. There is no urge to flee or stay, merely to exist. None of these versions is easy to love but they are all worth it because above all, they will love you with ease.
My love is a baptism of fire, even I am not saved from it.
Poetry spills from my lips so it’s harder to write when I have someone to kiss.
On a hot as fuck day in October, we kiss. I make it a point not to remember the day because I promised myself I wouldn’t be sentimental anymore. So, I didn’t. All I did was numb myself to it as it washed over my existence. It built up beneath my mask until I scratched it out.
It’s a starry night in December, the shit poets dream about, and we are still together. Poets dream about things like this too; pushing deadlines till they cease to exist. So here we are somehow existing beyond our shelf life, stumbling drunk from the bar as I lean on you, I tell you I am attached to you.
It’s hot again in January but now the heat is different. A paradoxical heat because it brings forth destruction in a month of new beginnings. We reached our shelf life. We burnt it all and we each carry equal blame.
On a foggy morning in February, we are drifting in the unknown, we talk about the Phoenix. You said sometimes we must burn to create. We will burn again, but not today.
Poets describe love as a fever that cannot be put out unless the beloved is within reach. Maybe my words are a symptom of that fever.
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“We were prone to so many disasters — lives lost to suicide, minds wrecked, hearts marooned in the backwaters of time, bodies burning with pointless obsessions — and we gave each other a hell lot of trouble.”
– Pinball, Haruki Murakami
We exist in undertones and silence, never black or white but a shade below grey. You never took me anywhere you couldn’t fuck me, but I came anyway (the double entendre that defines us, the only thing we didn’t blur)
I get blackout drunk and in my last moments of lucidity, my tongue is numb and all it tastes is your name. So I’ll call you at 3am to stutter my ultimatums but all you make out is “I wish you talked about me the way you talk about my pussy.”
Turn the tables and it’s you at my house at 10pm. You walk in and leave sobriety out there. How your world stops when I leave, and other dreams you sell.
I was yours for so long and now I don’t know how to be anything else. But that’s not true, I tell myself this so you remain relevant. Was it love if I don’t remember your birthday when you’re gone? You had a scar as big as my index finger, I can’t remember what thigh it was on. I can remember the first time my lips touched a cigarette but not when they touched your lips.
All you are now, is a fictitious person I write about from time to time. You are what I say you are.
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Catholic boy with the perfectly trimmed fingernails, I want you to put me in positions that will test your faith. I want to sink my teeth in your morals much like yours can sink in my flesh. I want to hear you whisper in my ear with the fervour you don while reciting your Hail Marys. I want to be the reason for your oral fixation. My name has two syllables, you will recite them when you have been bad. Your innocence is a disguise I want to unravel. Speaking of unraveling, I have a few items of clothing for you to attend to. You will worship at the altar that is my body like you attend mass. I will be the reason you proclaim “forgive me father, for I have sinned.”
I am pleasure wrapped in sin, I am here to corrupt you.
This is the prelude to disaster. My heart is racing and my vision is blurred, it’s happening again. Anything will set me off, a name or a memory. An overwhelming belief that I am inadequate begins to suffocate me. I forget how to breathe like I haven’t done it my whole life. My brain says my oxygen has been cut off and I can almost feel my blood cease to flow through my body. And then come the shakes. I can’t seem to control this body. I call it “this body” because in this moment nothing feels familiar. It doesn’t feel like it’s mine and I can’t get it to stop.
My consciousness folds into itself. I am experiencing this from inside and from outside this body. I can’t scream because on top of all this I’m trying my best to seem fine. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.” I recite this over and over again till the words lose meaning. Did they even have any meaning to begin with? Maybe it’s a phase, maybe it will pass. But logic fails me, I am falling apart while conscious of the fact that this could be permanent. This could be the last straw. Tomorrow I might not put myself back together again. But if I do, it’s like nothing ever happened. I tuck my anxiety into the land of the forgotten. Back to being “fine.”