I feel everything.
I don’t know which is worse.
The gun is still hot. It’s nearly three in the morning & I’m turning over the mattress again, changing the sheets. I bought a new rug. I did what I said I’d do. I can feel your eyes from all the way over here & I think it’s shameful to be able to find you like this. I think that hell is found in always feeling you when you’re here & this is the first time in a long time. The blood lets me know that you’re here, my twisting gut tells me something, but maybe I am wrong.
I didn’t know you had been here then either. I should have felt that. I mean saw that, because I did feel you. But I didn’t see what you wanted me to see. Would you still give a girl the moon if you could? By girl, I mean me. By moon, I mean the moon. I want the moon. I want to carve a house into a crater for us to live in. I want to say that I’m sorry for everything I did & didn’t do.
Here is my tongue with raspberries, here is my tongue without them. I’d let you scrape off my taste buds with your teeth. I’d like to have a mark of your mouth in an “O” shape on my left butt cheek. Butt cheek is a funny word—so is absence.
I’d like to write a new love poem. I’d like to give them something they’ve never heard before. Maybe you can be the wolf & I can be something you ate. Or maybe I’m the wolf & that is why I can still feel you kicking inside of me. I’d spit you out if I could. I’d set you free just so I could ask you to come back.
I ask you to come back anyway. I don’t even know who I’m talking to these days, but I keep talking. What else is there to do?