only in rages, only in stupors (i am never)
only when the soft unfurling selflines created by the kind of ecstasy
you can grip in a palm is unwinding the coils in my spine
can i ever be honest, and it is taking every intricate layer of muscle tissue cooperating
to craft this evidence– that i am capable of truth at all.
i am turned inside out here,
no holds barred, the way i like to think i love,
and this hurts (it fucking hurts).
we aren’t even on the same wavelength now,
yet your currents are electrifying and frying my nerves.
when are you going to flip me over,
so that i can hide again?