anger · relationships · romance · sex · sexuality · vulnerability

Sex Type Thing: Poems.

Can you fix me from inside the slickness?
Will callouses and scabs be rent off by our friction?
Will the explosion of your cum inside me tremble into the
core of every cell
and paint them newly red?
Then get the fuck off me.
* * *
my foot cramps in the closed position monkeys
must still be able to make but i can’t
my hip bone pops in its socket and i’m
unsure whether that’s into or out of it
the lightest swing of my body against the mattress
mimics an old playset and i’m suspended
* * *
everything switches off, except your breath
against my hip bone
* * *
everyone i know has an o.c.d. mom
and an absent father
will this fix it?
does it need to be fixed?
how the fuck do you do that?
* * *
i want her to stop claiming “broken,”
as if it’s a setting on the dishwasher
and when its turned all culpability and
engagement in the world is paused
* * *
the tiniest fibers of hair
freshly shaved this morning
no matter how new the razor
they vibrate like frankenstein’s
monster and map
my skin against yours
us in this town
the triangles of string that
connect where i’ve been
connect other lovers
not comparing, enhancing this one
how his tongue felt against the densely
the lightest grazing and
sickly sudden entrance
of manicured or not
strapping my attention
chaining it to the bed.
* * *
how does this alchemy work?
it hasn’t so far.
lead returns to lead as
i bolt the door behind you
the moment gimped
by an awkward exchange of
see yous
what tangle the sheets are in,
still warm,
i climb back into them as if
i could coax them into being
and you were something else
* * *
i only ever imagine the weight of you
when i’m alone with myself at night
i can find folds that you can’t
and pace myself as you won’t
but alone, i can never press myself into the
evaporating softness
grip the muscles of your back
as if you were my life preserver

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