Me, Undone

two bodies   unclothed over-ripened   soft   easy to tear   tender to touch   dance naked   in the living room a sacred act the fire has hushed now turned to embers   it is the warm light in your eyes   that guide I do not ask more of you chide you to bend or sway to the crooks in my being I stand back   and absorb you for what you are a miracle I lean close to your left ear   and lend you my   dreams We lay down and press together   but do not enter having learned long ago   that our frames are not a means to an end   it is your mind   having grown deeper   and wider   I ready to pierce it opens up   And we   are young again  

They weep. These souls. In bathroom stalls. They walk. They move. They brood and hover. Hang regret like winter coats. They reach out to touch. Opening dry mouths in want so crushing. They live in the unseen. Watch us as we make our beds. Comb our hair. Make love. They come and go. Mark dust in doorframes. They know what we fear. Mumble to themselves of our pettiness, our egos, our need for control. How we push each other away. The cowardice. The hollow desperation. They ache. I returned to find a rose with a note on my pillow. It read, "Nothing else matters. Love."

It has taken shape in the back of my mind, that moving freely as a black lesbian loving other women of color, is an act of rebellion. We are the forgotten ones. The mules of the world. The bodies for which white women write their narratives against. Mirrors. Perverse inversions of womanhood. Fleeting cultural experiences. Backgrounds. There are no amber alerts for brown bodies gone missing. No righteous indignation. Our parts are purposed for sexual amusement and exploitation. Take the money and run. They scar our flesh, then shame us for our tears. Mock our anger. Tell us our lives are of little value. But My love for you will start a revolution. Speaking you. Naming you. Indulging you is a simple act of treason. I reach out to take off your mask. Stretch against my walls. Push out. Take up space. I will worship you, forever. In me, find all those things denied to you. Personhood. Wholeness. Agency. The merging of consciousness. Be not afraid of the gaze, for I am of ...

These things bloom like moss on the belly of stone. Soft, damp, copious--stolen from light. These things show themselves in spaces given last rites. On the faces of terminally lonely. These things come forth at moonshine. When tides have pulled in. These things follow the north star, searching for a way home. A way back to you.

And when the breeze cups my face, I know that I am alive. If you are reading this, you and I have made it to the other side. Feel the sun in sublime thickness lining your limbs. You are loved. You are love. Open.

This picture is a representation of my personal life, as I write. It's in shambles. The cloudy skies above, the rain falling down all around me, and I am the kid, in my raincoat, still holding on to my three silver balloons. Please don't fly away. I am dating once again. I've gone out with a few interesting women--two particularly exceptional women, including the priestess, but I am stuck. Trapped in the regrets, the what ifs of my previous relationship. I am staring at broken glass. I set fire to the rain for good reason. But the heart is wild, unamenable. It still loves. It refuses to recognize any combination but hers. To follow any sound than that of her voice. To map any pattern than of her body. There is no mold. But then, she knew that already.

I am, unto my self, a non-logical axiom. Twisted, hard and slow. Damp and cold. Wasting around my knees. I am here. Holding together. In the face of winds blowing up against me. I cover my face with wool scarf and hope for a sudden miracle. There are two of me. The rising and the falling. Sometimes I do not know which one comes and goes, whispering in my ear, oh friend. I construct fear because I want. Fear because I need. And when it arrives again with shiny sentiments. I just might...scrape away. To know what I am offers no solace. Just calm-like complicity.

I'm going to get up. get out. get on. and love. Skinny dip wearing rainboots. Free fall backward. Sky dive in skin. Cartwheel with my heart strung around my neck.

I’ve shifted. Shaky bones. Everything that was meant for me has arrived. Slowly. In due time. In due time. I am my most radiant self in complement. The polishing. Adoration of thoughts not of my own. The worship of other as extension of self. I miss sober sex. Fresh touch and smell. Secrets. Transferred heat. Waking in the middle of the night to sense her here, there and there. Valentine’s day is for chumps. Love is for the brave. I’ve written you across my skin.

Don't feed me no tepid love like stale bath water and food warmed over again I don't want my love auto-tuned looped and pulled for primitive ears Leave me be my sour notes sloppy highs and sobering lows Don't put my love on cruise control smooth middle of the road rock me through the bends and curves press down hard on me I want my love unwashed Feed it to me unruly and matted Like red fire, let smoke rise up to choke me

For you I leave the front porch light on stash the key under the rubber mat scribble the password on the door seal part my folds for your fingerprints