The Things I Hate About You

I hate how I’ve written you more poems than anyone I’ve ever met in my human existence. I hate how, I hate that, I hate you when we both know that I couldn’t hate you. I hate that we both know that hate isn’t the main ingredient in this recipe but it feels so much more safer to scream I hate you than to say I love you.

And yes I do and you do too,

Hate in the way our eyes meet when we are about to make bad decisions with our bodies. Hate in the way we throw back-and-forth speech with harsh tones and unfiltered truths about each other in an attempt to build the other from their brokenness. Hate from the way we use our tongues in speech to encourage each other and in seduction to overpower each other.

I have never had just a lover before you, but I would advise every poet to find one. Lovers are letters we get to write to ourselves knowing that this can’t be a drink I drink forever but the refreshing-ness of your bare hands caressing my bare body for only a bare minimum of conversation and the aftermath of the cluster in the room, in your head and at some point in my heart. Lovers are slow dances, hoping it never ends and breathing them in deeply, knowing that when the clock strikes 12 the glass slipper will fall but the prince doesn’t come in search instead he frames all those slippery sloppy strokes, like a tape in his head as he closes his eyes, as he is wished away with flashbacks of back shots and deep throats. He frames it deeply in the core of his memory just as she stores the gasps and the groans that not only did she make him moan, but he groaned like a wild beast with nothing to tame his taste for blood, this claws left memories on her chest like a wounded pray but those scars felt like trophies a prayer of gratitude when she sees them, oh he is still here with me…

But they fade… like his DNA in her after a while, she will forget the taste of his lips and his wild kisses will be buried in the back of her brain but her back will never forget the arch it made to take it from the back.

As buried treasures of secrets my hate for you is a romantic novel but the hero is the villain and you are neither, a victim in the creation of art. A muse so majestic that no amount of bad behavior and lies could have been enough to mediate between the desires of our minds and the conversation of hips. A muse battling the same thing that artists battle but is brave enough to bear the internal biases of the body’s deliberate disobedience to the commitment to create.

Create a story, a tale for young love not in age but in time, short and bittersweet. Create the art the poets will paint about and young men will dream about….
What have we done? To risk it all for poetry and war?

How poetic to use our bodies as instruments of strategic analysis and conversation. Our best conversations happened in between deep breaths and deep stares. The obvious object hangs over our heads, in public, in private. I see the desire in your eyes and I don’t know how deep it runs and it doesn’t matter.

Nothing has ever mattered but words between strangers who had a lot to say but not enough good listeners around. The first conversation a rescue mission. You threw me a rope with words of hope I caught it and pulled myself up and ontop of you to be spanked and strengthened by sternness and stares. Your stares from across the room as I danced in the mirror looking for liberation in my hips and the confirmation in your eyes made me believe that indeed I was always going to be ok!

And as I write this like the eulogy that it is, of a death of those who breathe and life feels as thou it has stopped and I can’t seem to find my mind yet I’m grounded in my feet of truth, to live as a writer is to live to write not only pain but for glory. The glory of surviving a war of the mind and the discipline of seeing feelings as truth and thoughts as illusions because nothing is as it seems and things that are as they seem never feel as they should. I hope life carries us over, to the victories of pain and I hope that silence between us becomes the only language we speak. The silence of knowing but refusing to accept and the silence of being chosen by this art, this love, this fate, this pain, this part of the story.

The part where I walk away with my head held up high but my heart desires to sink at your feet. The part where my painlessness is the rhythm of the beat. The beat that bangs so loud my head doesn’t hear my heart and the separation between thoughts and reality gushes over me like strong waves from the dead sea. My dead dream of this dead deed that dug deeply into me simply to deceive my desires of dead deeds. These deeds that made me devious but delicious. The deeds that delivered me from my demons and that will be the dance, the dance I dance in depth, the depths of me. The me that was born to live alone and dream the dream of my delusions that don’t do me justice but give me the daring faith to hope that this isn’t it, for a writer like me. This isn’t the dance that defines me but despises the version of me that damn near destroyed me.

Alas dear daring diva! Who demands diamonds and stars thrown at her feet.