Kiss With a Fist
Thank you for the octopus-strangled plate. It reminds me of
gripping your hair late at night in the throes of poison. Suckers,
like lips, don’t have to bruise the skin. But are better when they do.
I’m know. I’m supposed to say stronger things. Like fuck off.
Like kiss this. Like this is the way my fist folds into
origami birds and flocks to your face.
The clocks hide their numbers when they see me coming.
Fear and shame can look the same behind tinned hands.
But one ticks louder than the other and is harder
to set off. The vase in the corner has opened its mouth.
Stuff it with something twiggy and broken before its time.
By which I mean to say I don’t fit inside that invitation.
Everything you bring me is dead. Which makes you a dog.
Or just a man who’s done wrong. You set fire to the wrong bed.
You forgot about the mirror kissing the ceiling.
Every red lipstick has a different name. Bloom on Snow.
Busted Cherries. Danger Among the Roses. Blue Period.
Bring Him Back You Bitch. So I Can Mark Your Skin.
Image taken with MacBook Air at JewelBox Cafe
Words written at the coffee shop with soy mocha
Time Taken unsure due to multi-tasking
Brain on sex, honesty, conversations