I’ve been embracing you despite yourself,
in accurate defiance
of the peach hair on my neck,
against your will and maybe mine,
like unsweetened yoghurt,
yet less conducive to my guts.
I smelt your chest
in perfect congruence
with childish stubbornness
and in alignment with my craving
for the stale taste of
eternally unlovables.
maybe you never were
more than a reminder
of the sugar cravings
I’d oppressed ever since
I was thirteen years old
maybe I never was
meant to pick her amber
hair off your cardigan
as you put too much fake
honey in my flat white
maybe my body was just not
ready to endure more
winter days in May
that seemed so cold to you
and awfully close to me
and surely it’s not you
who’s lying here right now
since you’re 8000 miles away
while I am in my childhood bed
again – clutching a hand that is not yours
we multiply ontologies
and contemplate democracy
as though we were protagonists
transcending the anthropocene
we bended the whole universe
to hotheads and denialists
radically–rapidly
we strangled what was possible
whatever we could grasp
merged our bodies with
the running room to be
to live in ruptures, live like rats
in blind spots of the junk
expose the monsters we’d become
lurking in the dark
as incarnations of their fantasies
we’ll be crawling out in swarms
from the shades our childhood beds still cast
I am
the earth.
I’m the Lion
who arouses.
I am a contrast
to the place I claim.
I’m what they call converse,
like a chameleon,
Dressed in anti-camouflage.
I am in your zone, exposed
to all the offerings of yours,
of which you had not known before
you saw me in the crowds — sticking out.
falling in love is
like the tattoo
you want to inject
under your skin.
a narrative which
I will wind
around your
silky forearm hair,
your dimples
and your heated chest.
When I put polish on my little toe.
Yours was so small you had to paint its flesh.
When I look at my childhood photographs: Strawberry blond, blue-eyed.
They said we had looked similar.
Whenever I touch a scarf.
Particularly, when I wear it too tight.
in·no·cent | \ˈi-nə-sənt
from Latin innocentia,
that denotes no ‘harm‘,
as well from Latin nocere,
‘injuring‘ someone,
or anyone involved.
blameless with integrity,
upright and disinterested,
lacking guilt or artifice
like a child,
protected and naive.
surely free
from legal wrong,
free from guilt and
free from sin,
with candid lack of knowledge,
I declare you are:
ingenuous, artless, ignorant
of the evil you have caused
of the guilt we’re all incapable
to blame you for.
If not full of myself
what else should I be full of?
Or would you, rather,
have me half empty?
It
Might
As well be a
Watershed moment,
Since I like to dive deep,
Always, until I can hardly breathe
Until I can hear my heartbeat: Loud and clear.
