Contrary (Late Fall-ish 2006)

(Well, this is ov from a very conflicted time. Towards the end its pieces of stuff that I brought together, kind of like Frankenstein. I was really into being vulnerable behind a strong and angry voice. And apparently I had enough hair to shake sleep out of... )

Contrary to popular belief
I cannot speak
to merely fill a space with words.
I don't know how to
yank the cord,
disconnect the current,
and erase the memory.
I cannot stand barefoot on the
cold kitchen tile
with a measuring cup and
ration out just enough
of each emotion
to stave off starvation.
My hand isn't stead enough to
paint on a smile
with the perfect shade of lipstick.
I can't float
in and out of rooms
without crashing down at your feet,
bruised and embarrassed.
I can't focus my eyes
on any acceptable part of you
when you walk past,
or whisper, or brush against my shoulder.
Then you brush by again, and again,
until you've backed me into a corner
and convinced me
that one more kiss won't hurt.
In the daylight you smile down at me.
Silly girl. Time to wake up.
I can't move, but I try to
shake the sleep out of my hair
quick enough to make you tell me-
say- something, something real.
Or was I just imagining
the tingle on your fingertips
that transferred to my lips,
and how we breathed together
in the dark.