life-is-a-blur

Poet & lifelong whore for Walt Whitman

[life-is-a-blur]

Sugar-dusted collarbone temptations, honeysuckle perfume— soft-handed seduction coaxing lyrical snares.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

Let this flesh know nothing besides tentative, hesitant love.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

Hunger, unlike usual kinds, creeps along— courses upwards, downwards, outwards. Everywhere. Feed these starving desires.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

There’s a no-vacancy sign flickering next to my beating heart.

It is strange: the way I consume my love for people,

this informally wild oscillation;

filling and pouring out,

taking and giving.

Would it ever be too much to ask,

for you to occupy the other places along my body?

I heard there’s a hotel in my mind,

untamed forests in my soul,

and avenues stretched throughout my veins.

Trace your fingertips along the mountain ridges in my spine;

sleep peacefully in the valleys between my ribs

to the soft rhythm of my breathing.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

As above, so below; as below, so above

I feel as though I could be pained

on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel;

A picturesque form of the grotesquely beautiful.

Onlookers would find me unsettling,

filled with melodramatic guilt and sanctified rage.

The creative-hearted of the group would reach,

fingers outstretched in abhorrent wonder.

They would scrutinize every inch for meaning;

for a nuance revealing, in any part, my provenance.

Hate the sin love the sinner, in a way.

Can I confess something awful?

From your standpoint, head craned upwards,

you just barely miss the chipped paint at my edges.

The wrongfully matched colors along my skin

seep together into one shade from such a distance.

So here is my confession:

I want to keep you at arm’s reach.

It would be unreasonable and undignified

to surrender to contemptible desires such as this.

I must not fall victim to your sinister disposition.

Please, love me from afar so you can ignore

the messes between the brush strokes.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

Within me resides the strictest of dichotomies:

I am both the haunted and the apparition;

I am both the sailor and the storm-tossed ship;

I am both myself and every person I have know.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

In loving me you hold a scalpel to my flesh.

I guide, with surgical precision,

your hand through tearing skin.

Oh, but I did this for you.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

My love for you is infinitely more terrifying

than any lovecraftian cosmic horror.

It is wrought with sacrifice—

a hundred thousand blood-let lambs,

a still-beating heart atop a ceremonial plinth,

chanting from the Kitab al-Azif.

I have found fear. I have found you.

They are not the same.

If it must end, then let it end like this.

Give me bomb sirens,

A doomsday clock with one second to spare.

Let the children cry in the arms of their mothers,

Let the mothers cry in the arms of the fathers,

Let no one hold the fathers.

We can sit atop a hill and watch the earth

collapse— this final exhale of life.

If it must end, then let it end like this.

Give me a hundred natural disasters,

A catastrophe equally as beautiful as you.

Let muddy water seep into our lungs,

Let the earth shake every picture from the walls,

Let it rain fire and locusts upon every city.

We can call it the wrath of god— we can

call it whatever we like, let the people die fearful.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

I may not know your body,

but I would know your voice

six ways to Sunday.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

I live in my memory, still, as a little girl; too scared to make noise, afraid of shattering this fragile world.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

Confession: if you want me, I need you to be gentle. I know my heart and I know my brain and I know that I am no better than a bird on your windowsill that you’re trying not to startle. I have not known a gentle love my whole life— I’m learning. I need the kind of patience granted to toddlers learning their alphabet. I need the kind of patience that I think your heart has to offer and I’m not trying to say that I need time, I’m saying that I need a calm persistence. You know, i spent 8 years teaching myself not to flinch when people moved too quickly while standing near me. I’m jumpy. Skittish. A stray alley dog backed into a corner, hackles raised. I bite the hand that feeds me for fear of poison in the food. I should have kissed you. I have not known a gentle love until now.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

July cracks in half; it’s august now. The world stops spinning. I’m on the verge of collapse.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

I’m loving you in every way I know how

Tilt my head upwards so you can kiss me.

Let your thumb find the soft spot

where my chin meets my throat.

Hold me there.

Drive a blade into the spot your thumb used to be

Cut

clean down to my collarbone,

Let the blood remind you

Of a childhood hunting trip.

Let the blood remind you

Of the cooling body of a just-shot deer.

Kiss my forehead,

Smile as you watch my eyes go glassy.

Run your fingers through my vocal chords.

No, fuck my vocal chords.

Shove me to my knees,

Let the vibrations of my final, desperate breaths

Push you over the edge.

Tell me how beautiful I look dying for you.

Tell me how beautiful I look on my knees for you.

Tell me how beautiful I look

Dripping warm, sticky blood on your rug.

Tell me you’re too disgusted with me

To kiss me one last time.

No, not like this— this is supposed to be

the gentle kind of love.

I can fix this, hold on.

I’m watching you sleep and counting down

the minutes until the sun comes up

in increments of 9.

It’s June. It’s 5:24am.

There are birds dying singing outside our window.

I count your freckles,

tap seconds out on my thigh with my index finger.

You’d cry if you knew how I felt in this moment.

It’s June. It’s 5:33am.

Sunlight is finding its way through

The cracks in the blinds.

It catches the dust— I count.

There’s more dust than freckles,

Who’d’ve guessed.

It’s June. It’s 5:42am.

I’m between you and the window.

Entertaining my shadow’s desire to

trace your sleeping body.

My finger rises and falls in the air

to the rhythm of your skin—

a ghostly conductor of a silent symphony.

It’s June. It’s 5:51am.

I slowly take your hand in mine,

Press a kiss into your open palm.

I leave a trail of kisses to the space

Between your shoulder and your neck.

(I lingered on the inside of your wrist;

I wonder if you noticed.)

It’s June. It’s 6:00am.

You feel me against you.

Still half-asleep and dreaming,

you wrap your arms around me.

I lose count of the minutes.

I kiss you softly as if it’s what

I’ve been meaning to do all morning.

You murmur something about getting

stains out of your rug.

I don’t ask what the dream was about.

I’m not sure it’s even June anymore.

It’s still not right- is it?

Please be patient—

I’m loving you in every way I know how.

I can fix this, hold on.

I tell you to fuck me ‘til I’m nauseous.

Until my legs are shaking too badly

for me to stand. I won’t be able to run away.

Fuck me until I can’t breathe,

Until I can’t get the taste of you out of my mouth.

I tell you to leave me ruined on the bedroom floor,

your shaking, whimpering mess.

Use me; ruin me—

I owe you that much.

I tell you to entertain my silly ideas of love

so you won’t feel bad about calling me

Your little whore while you fuck me.

I am yours, aren’t I?

Isn’t this what you want?

No, this can’t be right.

I can fix this, hold on.

You and I are eating dinner,

seated at opposite sides of the same table.

We’re not talking.

We’re not eating, either.

The dinner is a metaphor,

The plates have long been cleared.

You’re upset and I’m teary-eyed.

We never ate dinner but I can feel it

Crawling it’s way up my throat regardless.

The way your eye twitches when you’re upset

Reminds me of my father.

You’re yelling and I’m wondering how

I’ll make it through another person leaving me.

I get up to clear the dishes,

forget that the table is empty.

The dinner is a metaphor,

We haven’t eaten in weeks.

I meet your eyes.

No, I can’t bring myself to look at you.

I can feel you follow me to the kitchen

like a ghost breathing down my back.

I fill the sink with warm water and soap,

there still are no dirty dishes.

I write into the growing cloud of bubbles:

Love like quicksand, I sink into you.

There are no bubbles either.

No sink. No water. No you.

Definitely no dinner.

You didn’t like that one, did you?

Of course you didn’t.

I can fix this, hold on.

We are sitting with our backs pressed

Against opposite sides of the same tree.

The air is cloyingly warm and still.

I close my eyes,

Pretend we’ve fashioned a confession booth

amidst the growing tension between us.

Pretend the shifting shadows of leaves

mirror the latticework screen that should

separate us from one another.

I tell you: no one will ever love me.

I tell you about all the wretched,

horrible things I’ve done.

I tell you about my lost faith and my inability

to look someone in the eyes without breaking.

I tell you: I’m waiting for you to leave.

I tell you: I’m waiting for you to break me

by walking out of my life the same way you entered:

Without warning, turning my life upside down.

I tell you: I’m happy with you.

I tell you: forgive me.

I tell you: forgive me.

I tell you: forgive me.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

I want love so desperately that my hands shake with it.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

love me violently

You are asking me about love

and I'm telling you about violence.

I'm explaining how love is never

what you want it to be- it's always worse.

I want the tenderness but I can't seem to find it.

It's as if God took it when he left a long time ago-

packed the gentleness in a suitcase that found a

permanent home on a luggage carousel

in a country I'll never visit.

I pressed a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

Do you remember?

Your heartbeat thrummed against my lips and

for a second I convinced myself that

with every pulse, you consumed me.

Love is an open wound and in wanting you

I'm scrubbing salt into my skin.

I'll take this blood and write in loopy letters

Thank you for destroying me.

I'd cross it out. Rewrite

Thank you for loving me.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

excerpt from a letter to my great grandmother

She made me feel inside-out. She made me feel as though she were dissecting my heart and naming every vein and artery in her wake; whispering "see, here is where I love you. Here... and here..." And me, so young, crazed, forever chasing the high she gave me whenever she was around- loved still.

(a.j)

[life-is-a-blur]

A realization made while lying next to you at 3am

I can nearly forgive myself for the way I have lived when I hold the heart of another in my hands. Fragile. Breakable. Once, with these hands, I buried a stillborn rabbit in the cold winter dirt behind my house. Without a shovel, I clawed at the frozen ground until it gave way. When it was finished, I stood, dirt under my nails, and shrugged. Would you still love me?

Once, with these hands, I created. Once, with these hands, I destroyed. Oh, I'm sure both of those have happened more times than I'd care to admit (the later, I'm sure, more frequently than the former) but for the sake of being poetic, let's call it once. I created art. Poetry. Orgasmic bliss. I destroyed myself, for you. Tore myself apart and watched myself die. I destroyed you too (you told me as much.)

Once, with these hands, I met the soft caress of your sun-dappled skin. Once, with these fingertips, I traced your bottom lip, your jaw, your collarbone. Once, with these lips, I grazed your neck, your chest, your thighs. Once, with this body, I knew you in a way that many people could only call biblically (nothing feels more holy than you, so perhaps they are correct) and yet I am condemned for loving you. Once, with these hands, I loved you. I loved you. I loved you.

(a.j)