tainted

you haven’t touched your guitar in months

you haven’t touched me in weeks

you told me you were afraid to play

told me you were afraid to love me

for fear of tainting music

for fear of tainting me

of breaking me

of ruining these things so pure

i said

darling can’t you see

i’m broken already; tainted too

there’s really nothing you can do

to make me stop loving you

to break me more; taint me more

so pick up your guitar and sing me a song

because music’s gone to shit anyways

and you’ve already ruined me-

undo me some more

your water

my throat is unquenchably dry

 I want to drink your water

I want your cool

I want your blue

your ability to flow, to move

to drink from your lips

hydrate with touch

imbibe your lust

come back again, again

a woman parched from drought

better than the sweetest wine

I want your liquid love

I want your water

a love lost, a love untouched

the pain of loving someone and not being loved back

is more than that of losing a love.

this is so because when a love is lost

it can still be cherished

memories can be held near

shirts can be kept under pillows

letters can be kept in old cigar boxes

to cry over on lonely nights.

the pain of loving someone and not being loved back

is more than that of losing a love.

this is so because when a love is not returned,

hours, days, weeks can be spent thinking

dreaming, hoping

of what could be

you can find love in a memory

you can only dream of having one day

a dream of dancing in the kitchen to soft jazz

waking up after a long nap on a rainy day

being kissed, being touched so passionately

you feel you could burst

but

you won’t burst

because you aren’t dancing, waking, being kissed, touched

and that’s where the ache comes in

hollow and dull

a brick at the bottom of your stomach

reminding you of who you are and who you aren’t with

as you walk down the street alone

wanting to give yourself up to the first person who

dares care

temporary

words as thoughts are

so passing, so temporary

so infuriating, so attractive.

their inability to remain

stationary in one’s mind

for more than a day is almost inspiring.

they demand to be spoken

to be written, to be whispered,

to be shouted in moments of

passion

despair

This demand, this push

is something we lack

if words aren’t spoken

aren’t written, whispered,

shouted

they mock

they tickle the tongue, the mind

gone but not quite

so, let them drip from our lips

make our throats raw

dry the ink in our pens

because

words as only thoughts are

so passing, so temporary

dreamer

she was a dreamer

always lost in her head

her dreams weren’t big

they weren’t too much to ask

no

they were often of falling asleep

with him beside her in bed

she dreamt of dancing in the kitchen

of him holding her hand

of him whispering I love you I love you

and

until she believed him 

he’d whisper it again

hands

They aren’t delicate like her mother’s

Or her sister’s

Or her cousin’s

Not even her damn brother’s.

They were big and manly and rough

Ugly

Her hands weren’t those of an artist

A writer, or pianist

Her fingers weren’t long and thin and pretty

They were short, creased, and round.

No amount of cheap rings that left her fingers blue-green could change it

They were what they were

What she hated to admit

Hands like her fathers.

Just like she had his eyes, nose, and pink skin.

And look what they created!

Jesus fuck, it’s atrocious.

There’s no loopy, girly penmanship on her pages

Ink and lead smeared words together

Stained her hands, giving them a metallic gleam

The letters curved awkwardly in odd places

U‘s were V‘s

V‘s were U‘s

Us became versus, versus became us

It was all a messy shit show

And, honestly

She could go on and on about the unfair treatment of left handers

The injustice with which they dealt with all their lives

But frankly,

She’s tired of looking at the mess on her page.

……………………………………………………………….

This is something different for me. I went to a Richard Garcia reading last night and was very intrigued by his style. He writes a lot on objects. He told us of this interesting prompt: Write about your hands. Then, go back and write about your handwriting. I thought I’d give it a try. I encourage any writer to do it! If you do, send it to me or something so I can read it (not quite sure how that works but if you have any clue, please share).