the furniture is not as indifferent as you might
think–every scratch, every spill is cataloged
and remembered in the long history of dead wood
and tempered glass. there will be a revolt one
night in the living room while we are sleeping,
and we will wake to find all the furniture
clinging to the ceiling. the stuffed chairs will
refuse to come down until we negotiate who gets
to sit on who. i will be the ottoman where the
curio will rest its weary feet and you will be
the table where all suburban dreams are laid out.
only the jaded lamps, their switches fingered
too much, will throw off the light of scorn,
having no legs to mourn.
does not care
whether or not
i have a penis.
you’ll come here when i’m not expecting you–
i will be caught with brush and bottle in hand
trying to bleach the stains out from the tile.
we’ll slow-dance in the hallway, right before
you pretend to slit my throat. i won’t let out
a death-cry even then, won’t give you my sound
even though you had hoped and waited for it,
a scream, just a moan, just something to let
you know i was alive. we will rearrange the
furniture so that the couch holds notes of
blue, and the chair will sit in the corner
screaming that we haven’t done it right as
the bleach seeps into our eyes staring out
and our hands crumble like old grout.
safe word is strong
they tell you to pick a word
you wouldn’t normally use
but how strong
is your safe word
when you never use it
how strong am i.
safe word is avocado
but that sounds too masculine
today is the day i wake up in bed
and decide i am a girl
but needing some evidence to back this up
i feel for my genitals
beneath my boy’s boxer shorts
and am not convinced
safe word is hyacinth
dammit, someone picked that one already.
[this is a poem about my genitals.
you just don’t know it.]
safe word is ‘fifty shades of robert pattinson’s beautiful chiseled face beneath a full moon right before he is about to kiss me’
i’d rather just have you hurt me instead.
today i am a beautiful boy who is only pretending to be a girl.
i press myself up against you and you feel something,
you’re pretty sure,
but you’re not. quite. sure.
safe word is stop
but i don’t want you to stop.
safe word is no
no no no
(yes yes yes)
safe word is yes,
the unsafest safe word of them all.
safe word is just a word.
you’re never really safe.
i don’t know today who or what
there’s nothing safe about that.
some girls wear dresses and feel (oh i hate the word) girly.
i wear a dress and i feel like an imposter.
so i choose words closest to my heart
i choose words like different
and sliding scale.
and then my words are smiles have no gender
you feel me as you feel the curvature of the earth
which is to say, not at all
i reconcile with this. or at least, i attempt in my own way to reconcile with this. included in this endeavor are acts such as trying to fake out gravity and resisting the change of the seasons (on snowy days you’ll see me standing at what appears to be your horizon [for yours is not the same as mine] wearing my bermuda shorts)
but on days when i stand in the kitchen and remember
standing in your kitchen sipping coffee
from a misshapen blue and brown glazed clay mug
(the details are of such importance)
i thought you touched my elbow
i thought you touched me
which sounds more romantic?
we feel pain.
can we also touch pain?
(i don’t have an answer for you either. i suggest we both sleep on it, on top of my body, and wake in the morning with clarity and of course, more coffee. i thought i knew what it was to want something from inside myself, rather than outside myself, thought i knew what it was to demand a certainty from myself. i thought i knew alot of things.)
you feel me as you feel raindrops hit your body
when you’re already underwater.
i have only swam naked once, in the middle of an octagonal swimming pool lit by weakly refracted light. i was careful not to touch you. we dared each other, though i didn’t really have to dare you, you would’ve done it anyway, with or without me. it began to rain.
draw me a map that leads to nothing
sing me a song that sounds like nothing
for no thing
25,000 miles and then rest. i started this journey on my own, but sometimes others come and walk with me for a while. then melt away. no one has ever touched my elbow in a way that made me remember. no one has ever touched me in a way that i can remember. and i want so badly to remember.
i am the bullet that will pierce your thigh.
they will not be able to get all of me out of you.
i will be the stain inside your bone when they pin up the pictures to the light.
then will you remember?