on the forehead

(she thinks from under the bed)

for fuck's sake please stroke my head. please. my knees have dissolved into powder after a long time of bone rubbing against bone, from the many times i thought it was going to happen and prepared myself and propelled myself a little closer to your hand. like a rusted bio-degraded knee-spring, they have disengaged with me.

for fuck's sake, you've been taunting me for so long. i really can feel my hairline itch. you hand would be annoying but so necessary. you've been talking with your hands for ages and i've falsely expected them to touch me for all this time. can't you see how patient i've been for you?

for fuck's sake, you make contact with me for a split second and before i have proof it happened, before i can have one visual image of it having taken place, you withdraw deep into your hiding place, and pretend never to have left at all, so the others can point at me and say 'liar' and tell me off for not giving up on you.

for fuck's sake, either completely dissolve, like my bones and my self-respect, or make it official, to help me stay ok and not lose it. i am not sure i will make it either way, but this, at least, you owe me.

this plasticity

i'm raw. soft and red. the thin film of the top layer of skin has been carefully peeled off. i glisten. i am now one step closer to being nearer you. one less layer to separate the blood from the air. moist, hot pulsating flesh. all one surface. it's being cooled down by the breeze and my frantic picking of the scabs. i can't seem to know where it's been done and when i need to be more careful. i feel my eyes. their left-right movements, jerkily stabbing my eyelids with pain. or  energy. it is unclear to me what i can feel and it is of no importance at all, so i promise to myself i will ignore this. my lashes flicker, a separate material growing from within my eyelid skin. i feel the slither of liquid make its way across my cheek. it is running so slowly i have to bite my tongue not to move. it touches the top of my lip. i taste my blood and i remember. when did we agree this is not ok? when did we agree i cannot reveal my veins? i read in a magazine once that there are more than two types of people. i forget them all, but i remember one was the person who deals with life quietly. you don't want to state the obvious, you don't need to share your experience, you just need to get on with it and lock your lips with a key you destroy. i remember there is the person who puts on the show, expressing the suppressed, declaring the declared, repeating what we've all heard before and now don't even notice it's repeated once more. and then there is the person that collapses and withdraws and fights and kicks and hides and blames everything on everyone, knowing full well that it is only their fault and without their irregularity, their lives would be perfect and meaningless. i guess i fit in the third category. sorry. i know i can be embarrassing. i know i can take myself so seriously that it shocks and makes internal voices gasp and english manners look away, on the floor with politeness. but i also know i can be exhilarating and blindly optimistic, my hopefulness never haltered or contained in any situation. i am not simple. but i am predictable. consistent within the complexity. responsible within my wild accusatory rage. willing to see and begging to understand. locked inside this face, i'm ripping it off, to get out and touch you. air. (i want to feel you.)