Slipping past a metal fence,
And into the future –
The pain of being loved,
Like true love: the synapse-shaking,
Lip-burning type that compacts your
Lungs into playthings at three in the morning.
The pain of this so-called love
puddles on the sidewalk
And whispers truth in each passing motor.
Like a burr of fire, it burns where the kisses land,
Where the arms enfold me and I
Cave into myself.
Is it slow-speak or am I spitting
Out the words that have no meaning, no,
Nothing but feeling and a tsunami of
Remorse, regret and revisitation?
Slight against the cold wind on my
Not-so-bare back, but rather the
Covers and folds of black cotton
That seeps into my marble skin.
I look sickly – not sick, just like it
In the way that my veins become my
Celtic diary, they spell out my lies.
Low-life, that’s how slinking the
Bracelets on your wrists become.
As you spill your soul out in toilets,
Over groins and dinner tables and wherever
Else the lusting lightening flashes for you.
But as in flashes, this is a flashback, a nothing-matter,
As now you are better, you are healed.
You are not a Prozac nation, not thirteen,
You are not what you want to be but neither
Are you what you do not want.
Instead, you are here in a mess of tangled
Barbed wires, words that slip and the burn of
Love, neglect, misplacement and betrayal.
Just words, just spiraling sideways and
You’ve forgotten who you are, where you land.
Why is your life so empty?
Can you feel the passion fade in every
Stone-cold kiss, brushing skin but
Barely touching your soul?
And here it consumes you completely,
Running on the edge of insanity, the edge
Of your underwire bra…which never
Slips off your skin, you know what it’s
Like to be undercover naked.
So pass me, pinned butterfly, and don’t you
Needle me with your
beauty marks of fucking salvation.
Love has always been fruitless.
