Before bed
and before I brush my teeth in the morning,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI think of all the things I should have said to you.
Like
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI’m hungryㅤㅤㅤor
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤmy feet hurtㅤㅤㅤand
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI never really liked the handcuffs in bed
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤor out of it.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI find your National Geographic documentaries boring
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤand I never liked your dogs
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤand I don’t think they liked you either,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤand no,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI still can’t bark like them.
In these waking dreams,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI think of all the things I wish I could have done to you.
Like
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤtake your clothes off in the cold or
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤkiss you one last time
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤbefore all the horses stopped being wild
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤand age domesticated us.
Then I imagine we’d meet one more time,
and you’d hold me, baby, and call me baby just for the night,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤyour potent breath behind my ear,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤmy skin sandpapering
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤbeneath the chill of your mercurial touch,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤinhospitable but yours,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤnonetheless.
For the first time, you’d let me pick the film
the type that gets you off,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤand I’d clamp your eyelids open for it.
On the imaginary screen back in your imaginary bedroom,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤstarring you and me:
Bodies bare like babies bathed in the violent womb of your palms.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤYour fingers like
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤmetal bars columned around
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤthe desperation
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤof my youth –
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤa tomb of a home video,
I’m shaking, possessed
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤand wild.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI liked carousels but riding you was like a cyclone, baby.
In the middle of the scene, I tell you I’m hungry, and
you throw your head back and laugh,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤyou starve wild things
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤfor little bellies
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤand littler breasts.
In the dark room,
in the fantasy film,
I watch you watching yourself
watching this little wild thing,
starving for your sight,
full from your touch.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤAnd I know you’d still get off to it and somehow
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI’m still the one apologizing.
‘Cause I made a home
out of the crate
in your kitchen
at night and
I’d still come out to play if you wanted me to.