No Paper

Enough to spill. Spill a little bit. And no more. That'll do. A tantrum of skin embezzles my attention. Every encounter is a sudden accident. Each kiss is whiplash. I search for my head amongst the debris. But when I finally find it I decide I was better off before I did. Happiness is the seat belt. Sex is the windshield. And we were hoping to crash.

I like my wounds to be vocal. I like my bandages caked with blood. Brittle and sewn to the scab. Muddy watercolors of the last time I felt anyone. I like infection. The itch too deep to scratch.

I was driving. Steering with my eyes. Seeing with my hands. As lovers demand of their victims. As touch requires of its students. I wanted to learn. I wanted to know. What the world had been keeping from me. What drugs there were to make life bearable. How many flavors of people they came in. I wanted to know.

I could tell the story whenever I wanted, but I had only that one chance to live it.

Such is the quality of love. It grows too slowly and lust is so impatient. No time to wait for the paint to dry on the colors we thought we wanted when there are so many blank walls I've yet to test.

I'm better off with bare wood anyway.

The splinters are perfect lovers. Gentle enough. In comparisons like dog tracks. Corsets of men. Shaping my bones to fit other women's bodies. The world is always unprepared for the beautiful. Shocked at the slightest hint of compassion. The world doesn't want to make friends. It just wants people. Lots of people. To displace its emptiness. And people are the same.

No paper. Just words without anywhere to go.