I remember it now. The kitchen floor self surgery. I can't remember what I removed, but it seems I miss it now.
The sting of Bushmill's and Beam is analog to the sting of the needle. My medicine. The same sting of memory and late nights and crowded rooms with so many people that after awhile just seems like mirrors to me. "That's it. Yeah, that hurts. Do it again." I hate how I look in them. I can't stop watching out the sides of my eyes.
The sting that follows all the sweetness. Some pin prick to recover. To cope.
Chocolate for shakes, Whiskey for hearts. I'm here without the medicine. I'm just here for wide-eyed sadnesses and this appetite to look look look look.
How awful. The things we find.
This house is too big. I can't fill it with furniture or music.
I made jokes about it yesterday-how I wish I was gay-but underneath the (mouth closed) smile was an accurate longing to rob this life of loves' surprises and unnamed expectations.
Somewhere in all this fog I may not know what I always want, but I know what I like when it finds me.
The small hands full of delicious touches. The eventual, obvious calm when bodies disconnect. Then, in that symphonies' absence I can listen to the confusing jazz of my head. Motif. Counterpoint. Descant.
When after this painful touching ends and I'm not enduring this superficial connection (that's just never enough or complete) I can pout and mourn. I can feel sorry or feel empty. I can feel nothing or love from some abyss like a deep water shark or seadevil. I can pick the scabs or stroke myself.
If I could love every woman who loves me just like a whore. Without the expectations. Without the fears and assurances of the unavoidable leaving. All our entanglements bleached by the commerce.
"Look at me. Look how ugly and how fragile. How brave and incapable. How feral and how useless and how predator and prey rolls together so neatly. Look at how beautiful I wish I was. Look at how scared and how broken I am. Look. Don't go. don't go. Don't go.