White Is the Color of Wanting To Be Stained
This is me raping the red of an apple,
the breathy sweetness of the flesh underneath,
a slab of clean, radiant cold filling my mouth.
I can feel it under my teeth,
your skin,
like the calm of an apple.
This is the tip-toe edge of a knife
slipping through the base of my skull,
and the blooming sickness of blood
curling up in my throat, as cold
and as calm as metal,
a tide against my tongue,
the breaking of waves against gritted teeth.
An untamed, hot wind like wanting.
I am red like the sun
snapping the softness of the shadows, the
patience of the moon and her lazy circles,
dripping white perfume and
jazz –silver and cold onto the hungry earth.
I am mournful, desperation,
fingers pressed on parted lips
and hollow strings –the soft, clear scent of wood,
the cool reality of it unfolded beneath my palm,
lithe as skin.
This is me waiting for you
because empty has overtaken
my marrow, scooped out fistfuls of organs
and flung them across the stars.
I have nothing, so I set it on fire,
and it burns
and it burns to nothing.
And this is me reducing myself to ashes,
wrapping my arms around my chest to
count the beats,
wishing they wouldn’t skip
so
fast.
notes spilling into
the white spaces where the shape of you
waits empty.
This is me conducting music in the rain,
your name beating at the windshield,
sliding silky down my thighs.
This is me flooding across the floor,
the heaviness of the inhale before syllables –
an ocean staining my reason –
You: beautiful, intangible, surreal
as I reach for the
bright spots of the moon,
the unbroken crimson of an apple,
the wet indigo of the sky.
A cold, pregnant emptiness curving,
the breathlessness of the sea
misted white over my fingertips.
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