Back Door Tea Party

Dec 6

Her lips tasted like cardboard and there was nothing left to convince him that if he drills far enough, he’ll strike something strawberry sweet under her skin. He wanted to know what insulated her from the coldness of the world. Was it her parents’ money? He couldn’t drown in her like he usually did with women. He used to believe there was something muted about her. Sometimes she looked like a lamp with a dark, heavy shade over the bulb but eventually it was clear that the only light in her was clinging desperately to her skin, flickering, on the verge of burning out. She made him grind his teeth and smile half-heartedly. Every day was becoming a stale re-run and he would think, “this is not how a woman should end up.”

Notes on us 1.

We danced T-A-N-G-O in the basement,
we did jumping jacks and scratched
each other’s backs. The grass was itchy
and the birds weren’t out, but you could hear
jet skis somewhere out on the lake.

There were high jinks. Stealing kisses
when your parents weren’t looking. It was
carousel of young love, the tailspin,
I want to be dizzy with you again. I want
you to run your fingers across me.

I want your tongue to lecture my tongue again.
Or your mom to lecture me about wearing sunscreen.
I want to be red hot
sunburned, bright as a fire truck and stubborn
as its siren. I want fluttering hellos and staggering goodbyes.

We got so drunk that we stumbled and spun
around rooms, shining, like lightning bugs
dancing through the midnight blue. I want to laugh
that hard again, so hard my chest aches and
my face shrivels up with a smile so strong that
I feel like one giant muscle.

Dec 3

Heat

My lust is sweat stained and
blown around my bedroom by an oscillating fan,
left to right, right to left.
All of a sudden we were
tied up and tie-dyed,
shedding light and shedding clothes.

Pelvic bones and collar bones,
roosts for lips that land and
fly away like cardinals.
I felt your fingers
count each of my vertebrae
in between heavy breathing.

Our bodies, our limbs,
my shoulders and your legs
puzzle pieces sliding into place.
You taste watermelon sweet,
your skin blushing pink like
a blooming peony.

Is this what the high tide feels like
crashing in and washing out on
shore’s sandy skin?
You tugging at the sheets
like the moon pulling the
heart strings of the salty waves.

Nov 12

22

Brave girls are all bells and whistles,
noise makers howling,
fine china falling to the kitchen floor.

Laughing and smiling,
and especially, dancing.

Moving their bodies like snakes in grass
or fishes in water, scales shining with rhythm,
sugar overflowing from the tips of
fingers to twinkling toes,
hips drifting, moving, channeling
sex and freedom, womanhood beaming floodlight bright.

Carvings

The whiskey is on its way up,
after minutes of dry heaving, finally,
letting it out like a 12 year old girl
with a secret about her best friend.

I’m a child right now,
looking for familiar textures,
reaching out
for you
but not finding your soft hands.

I remember when there
weren’t spider webs between us
or canyons or cliffs or rivers
or even bridges.

Sometimes I sit at the window
and imagine
every driver
is you and I wonder, like
a kid reaching for candy
in the top of a cupboard,
where you’re going.

Sometimes,
I just watch the clouds through
the window
and wish that we moved as slowly
as them, that we would have whispered
a little more.

But we knifed and carved
away at ourselves,
two years ago,
whittled away into
little figurines
of ourselves,
splintered,
a little rotted.

Nov 7

andrewjgarner:

Wondering if I want to shave my head again

Kisses

I don’t want your dusty kisses.
The ones you’ve kept at the bottom
of a drawer for years,
the ones that creak and don’t slide into place properly.

I want your recently bloomed kisses.
The ones that are ripe as a pregnant belly,
heavy at the end of a branch.
The ones that smell like new car.

I want a kiss so new that
your lips tingle when they meet mine.
Kisses that shine like dew on
a new morning and kisses that are ungraceful, like a baby bird on its first flight.

Nov 6

Can’t believe this is me at 19, four years ago

It all started with
your hips, your fingertips, the lighting of the day.
The way you walk, the way you talk,

where you go, and what you say.
Your bare feet in the green, lush grass,
The way you walk from off the path,
The tall trees and the river wide,
rushing through the wonder in your eyes,
It’s all the doubt inside a growing woman,
and all the empty space in a broken man.
The way you keep on moving mountains
and all the times you’ve shifted sand.
It’s the way you make me want to find God
through your hips, your fingertips,
and all of your curves.
You’re the wild, you’re the beauty,
you’re the gospel that I’ve heard.

Oct 30

Wait, listen, baby 2

BABY
listen
listen
listen
there’s moonlight
and there’s wind
there’s skin and bones
there’s you and me
listen
I’ve got
board games and
a bottle of wine
so wait
wait
LISTEN
beautiful
I mean, you are BEAUTIFUL
don’t you know?
why don’t you know?
let me be yours

Wait, listen, baby 1

let me be yours
loyal
like a dog
whining and begging
curl up with me
let me hold you
by the fireplace
in the bed
in the movie theater
in any damn place
let me YELL for you
lets raise hell and
drink ‘till we’re blind
so I can touch you like
braille
right?