Monday, 4 January 2016

untitled (or ‘a poem about intimacy, beauty and forest fires’ for now)

Intimacy
to me
has always been synonymous with
beauty.
Somehow I felt
or knew
that when I breathe in the air escaping his rising
and sinking lungs that it would be
nothing short of
beautiful
that it would
linger in my head for days to come
leaving me with a high
that made me feel
invincible
that his fingers will leave me traced
drawn
that it would
leave me a masterpiece.

Intimacy
to me
has always been tied to the idea of
reciprocity.
That I could never
and would never
be the one left alone with my questions
as though the polar possibilities of a
suppression
or a
confession
were all I needed to escape
But I
have made a
profession out of crossing the invisible line
where your eyes meet mine and I find myself wanting to ask for
permission
to look at them.
Because looking at them felt like
blissful
sinning

Because as he moved his body against mine with
nothing but simplicity on his mind
Moving and reducing and moving and thinking and moving and
knowing
that sometimes it is just
that
It is just simple
and sometimes it is not art
and not magic
and sometimes there is no
beauty.

As his cold fingers traced the small of my back
I did not have to think twice to know that this
was desire
that this
was craving
and I couldn’t help but find the heat escaping his body
welcoming
Knowing and scared that this was not
an invitation for the trust that I was so surprised to see myself giving (up)
or maybe, just giving / Knowing
that this fire might only be put down
with the dust
of realisation
that this
may have been a forest fire
and I
did not want to find my flare gun
and maybe
I have gotten so used to being the one lighting fires
that I just did not know how to put them
out.

As we twisted and turned
and crackled
and burned
I sat there admiring the marks of his ravishing aftermath
scattered
all over my body
This incessant need to put a name to a feeling has left me with this
addiction that I do not want to recover from
and no
addiction is not beautiful
but I cannot sit here and deny that this does not make my blood rush
that it does not make me feel like I am at the top of a mountain range overlooking
oceans of skin in flames
and empires of wild eyes
and crushing heart rates
and I ask myself how can something so beautiful be rooted in
so much shame

This incessant need to put a name to this feeling has left me with this
brooding sickness
and I cannot for the life of me
stop
and try
to put into words all the reasons why
I am
so
fucking
scared
to let him
in

But what is harder than claiming the inability to put them into words
is the ability to put them into words

but the inability to accept them.

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