you know, there’s nothing i hate more about you musicians
than how infinitely more generous than me you are
and how fucking selfish that generosity is,
if one pays close attention:
peeling and brandishing flesh layer by layer and (bloody, raw) saying:
here. you’re cold, take mine. you can have my blood
to live, you may know my stories
so yours won’t frighten you into nightmares.
use my heart to feel again.
but while you’re bare bones and hollow resonance
the ache of losing potential -ships with you
is worse than anything we had to endure before your sacrifice–
did you think of it? for instance:
you have become the name on my lips when pleasure pours
bidden and bitten through my ribs and burns into the parts of me
which supposedly were meant for children
i am too selfish to lift my arms high enough to carry.
every morning i wake up without you.
editors: you are a great heavy hand
rough palm, callused fingertips and hair on the knuckles
laid to rest on my shoulder to steady me as i scream in sheets;
pair of slightly trembling knees serving as stool
as i curl into your just-slightly-paunchy stomach–
the rhythm that lulls me out of my heartache into sleep
is your pulse and
every night i fall asleep with only the idea of you. and you,
tool: you have turned me inside out
and made me look at myself and think about what i saw
you have twisted my nipples and my lips
and taught me to recognize that i am hurting
every day my heart shudders at the ghost of your sounds.
so many of you and all of you never there.
like dead lovers and absent fathers you are memories never formed
half-dreams, showing me the heart i nearly allowed to die
and then forcing me to heal it alone–
i hate you for that.
i cannot have you, cannot sleep in your arms
i cannot burn the feel of your skin from my cells
and i cannot stand on a stage and set fire to someone else’s heart
like you’ve done;
selfish assholes, i will always love you.