digital bath salts

just because you’ve got pretty eyes
and a big dick does not mean
you can tell me what to do.

my thoughts always drift back to your
mouth, your smouldering gaze, your
expert hands on (and in) me. your firm
grip on my throat, steadfast determination
as you wet me down with your words,
gruff growling syntax punctuated with
feral moans, biting my lip. of course
i’ve had others since, but you knock a-
round my brain, a low hum, a broken
carnival gravitron taken out by
a northeast thunderstorm where the
pressure in the sky is palpable. size queen
i am Not, but i long to sink down on
your couch just to see if i still Can.

just because you’ve got pretty eyes
and a big dick does not mean
you can tell me what to do.

i never prepared for exams. could not
tell you shit about the pythagorean
theorem, the nuances of world wars.
but studying your face as You dis-
appear? our eyes locked, that’s clear as
fucking day. furrowing and burrowing and
spitting and biting, your teethmarks
on my shoulder, caressed by your finger-
tips. your thighs still slick from when
i devoured you Before, as you run
your mouth in my ear like a
Good Boy, edging ever closer as you
pull me in, still, the closest we will
Ever Be. the future is a white balance
slate and i lose concentration every time.

just because you’ve got pretty eyes
and a big dick does not mean
you can tell me what to do.

releasing one another, we collapse in
a sweaty, panting pile of naked limbs
entwined. stealing moments nestled in
your arms, your handprints stamped
on my neck and my ass. priority mail,
tracked delivery guaranteed. you always
said this was when i was the most beautiful,
in your eyes. stripped down, hair a mess,
eyeliner blurred, glasses removed (by you),
emotional fortress demolished. i have
never felt so seen or so safe
in a man’s bed.

just because you’ve got pretty eyes
and a big dick does not mean
you can tell me what to do.

i cannot rid myself of the details of You
so, these words are my college try. i will
never truly be free, like that bathmat
that absorbs every last stain. my body
burns and aches and throbs, keeping
me up nights, gasping for more of you,
a man i fear is long gone. yearning
for a ghost is a funny, albeit sad thing. You
live in the backdrop of my darkest,
filthiest thoughts that can melt
steel beams. yet i Never Forget
my mantra;

just because you’ve got pretty eyes
and a big dick does not mean
you can tell me what to do.


it’ll come back around. years from
now when you’re
sitting all alone at the
applebee’s bar in temple city
because it’s the Only place that’ll
have you and your whiskey, with
scant hair left on your head,
surrounded by
sad sack strangers,

lonely and wondering how you ended
up in such a shit spot, and what you
may have forgotten all those years back,
while you were so busy
weaponising self-preservation?

don’t fucking call me.


on the vernal equinox, 6.36am eastern
daylight time, the sun will pass
the equator. draw a line through the
day and there will

be equal halves. hemispheres
of sound and light, birth, renewal,
death, and something silently
stirring in my mind. one part fire,
one part water, two parts sun
and the squeak of a mattress spring

as i roll out of bed to start
it all over again on a circle, a
bicycle spoke, an engine droning
in the suburbs that maybe will wake
the neighbors, but nobody
knows my name these days.

and sometimes i cannot hold
myself together, can’t quite shake
off the sleep, can’t find the ignition
and my mind trips on the details. balance

is a plaid thermos of black coffee when
the dawn barely catches you, and
someone is waiting
on the other side.

so here i am driving down route 17, and
i know you’re at JFK again, waiting
for me again, absolutely cursing under
your breath because i never could
get up on time. that flight is always
murky in my memory. still dark on the
plane, recycled air standing at a halt,
the city lights seem dull from
the window seat.

is there a name for the time of day when
the sky sits there expectantly? is there
a word like dusk that describes the
darkness when it knows, yearns for,
and is terrified that light will come to
give it absolution?

two equal halves, balance. Justice holds
the scales, and synonyms seem to
outweigh antonyms. She is tipping
because She cannot find a word to tell
you what i am, when all i can do
is tell you what i am not. so i coast
down 17 and know about the sun, think
about the months, about the way the
world and our lives circle, and
we’re stuck on a loop
doomed to repeat this moment, as
i drive. driving, morning, coffee,
waiting, wanting. again

and again, and whoever said there was
nothing new on this earth, they were
right; but of course they were not
the first to say it. our lives are spherical—

cut a line through the middle. we might
be equal halves, but i want the bigger
half. the paradoxical half.

032005 // revised 012023

2010 to 2023, lessons.

I went on a lacklustre date last night and then you texted and asked (again) whether I would drive down to your place. Start our days with coffee, end with you fixing drinks. Booze on the stoop, forever. I feel myself pull towards Yes, but then I remember why it will always be No when it comes to you and I.

Before she died, my mother laid it out to me in the form of brass tacks; there are people in your life who are going to love you for all of the wrong reasons. They will love you for the prettiest part of your face, the ideal part of your naked body, your best mood on your best day, the greatest heart-wrenching story you ever wrote, the most gorgeous dress you ever wore.

They are going to miss the burn mark on your right forearm from the first time you made gingerbread from scratch. They’ll miss the scar on your finger, when you sliced it open while cutting a paper snowflake at 7 years old. They’ll notice that you have great tits, but they’ll miss that your thumb tucks into their palm when you’re walking together, you steal glances at the bar, and that your eyes have darker circles when a migraine is coming.

(They won’t know you get migraines.)

They won’t ask where the story you wrote came from, so they’ll never know that it was true. They’ll simply love it because it feels real to them in a way they cannot discern. They’ll miss knowing the hoodie full of holes that they criticised you for wearing once was your mom’s, remarking that you looked unusually “dressed down”. You might tell them some of these things along the way in an attempt to reveal the real you, but they will choose to remember the Best things instead.

They will adore your good moods, your charisma, your sense of humour, but miss that you never turn to them, but rather to a shower or a pillow or the driver’s seat to shed tears. They won’t ever consider you strong.

When the parts that aren’t your best come out, they will shield their eyes as if you had just forced them to stare at the fucking sun for hours on end. They’ll silently make you promise to never show them that again, the rough edges, the imperfections. Those things are not to be shown. Be at your best so I can love you. I would love you more if only you never show me those things.

And you do not marry those people. You do not sit and sleepily drink coffee with those people. You leave those people and you remind yourself that they missed the better parts of you, and you fucking get on with it.

all candy

rage paves the way for sorrow
and then regret. i find myself holding you
close to my heart and my mind, slowly
driving myself into a pothole. you are
never far, and

i know you feel it too. come on out
and dance instead. think of
me, think of the moments we could be
stealing instead of dead air suffocating
the both of us beat by beat. i long
for your touch, hollowing me out
and then ending it all.