therootcellar

i watch the coffee pot do cannonballs through the air and bellyflop into the kitchen wall- glass licks the air in cartwheel spins and coffee stains melt down the paint and boil into the wood of the cutting board like liquid sandpaper and i think to myself- this is better than a picasso.

it doesn’t have to be perfect; it doesn’t have to be neat, tied up, origami in a soft little bow my body is not a gift for()giving. my body is a home that I don’t mind sharing, it is a well worn bed it squeaks, rusted springs but it welcomes you home, I welcome you home. I don’t know how many flaws I have but science tells me that if I stretched them end to end, they could wrap three times around the immensity of the apology you say with your flesh. your skin doesn’t need to say sorry for covering the stardust inside, you don’t have to apologise for taking up space when you and space are made of the same

so slip, i stumble. fumble with the doorknob and your key falls with me im falling into - there you are                                    i see you in these ports and the sea foam shades of the fog that parts at dawn the day before i find myself - here you are i want to be left alone but - it was the taste, salty and too sweet it was too much and my tongue is not appeasing or the tricks that tease - come close. still this one last time there’s something underneath your skin steady i want                              inside you - to see, how i memorize you in every gasp that splits the air around us and when you cum - crashing

it must be nice to know you’re wanted oceans and oceans and oceans away: power given over to you even though you’re so remote. control given over to you by the twitch of my fingers, by the itch of my throat.

I. it strikes me that this woman could be a palace. I marvel at the opulent dome of her brow, her arch expression— skin like a courtyard of ivory tiles, a thousand intersecting golden lines about her head and neck. she beams from atop her sunlit tower, beatific and beautiful, spreads her arms like open doors, invites you to be one of the many who have wandered her lavish halls. II. I’ve often thought of myself as a castle: all rough-hewn stone and turrets, a temper like molten tar. my head is crowned with embattled parapets, weapons readied at the crenels. I look out from my guerites, my brattices, eyes like arrow-slits