This poem was published in datableed zine here: http://www.datableedzine.com/#!shanabulhanhaydockthenightmare/ci9nq
the nightmare in which you kiss me
The colour of Nina Simone's voice against the coldness of a sin— The underwear tossed aside— The purple of raw cotton— I know the lampshade of my heart— You are another candle to blow out— My legs are a crime scene— The blot between is a blue rose— But I am not a blue rose— Nothing that magnificent and lonely— Nothing that new— The semblance, the filling-ness— My head hurts with this unwillingness— I have to see you if I am to live— Darling baby— All these words, allied and pure— The loose kurta, the mercenary skirt flying upwards— Show up in the yellow dress, the polkadots, labels cut out of white lace— Fingerprints against the bridge of my nose— My body filling up like a sand dune— My legs like shaken Aphrodite— Relentless beats, manic striptease signs— I need to feel the electricity of an eclectic smile.
I need you on my mouth, where there are no blues anymore. "It's been a long time coming," you said, and it was a surprise, but I don't know why.
you are wound into fibres when you least expect it. curls i haven’t been, haven’t known how to be. not spice at all. no use in breathing. everything is trite and nothing is innocent. in the nightmare we are all, all struggling to breathe. it’s cold and the streets are silver. the lamps are blaring out centennial songs, no, silence. the barbie dolls all have eyebrows shielding their bodies from plastic impunity. avoidance hurts so bad. how did i not know this before? it hurts so bad. the loud girl in the movies. clueless and suicidal. the blades inside the makeup remover. it hurts so bad & it’s so desired. i can barely breathe with the absence of texting you. i cannot write to you because that is cowardice. i need to come back to you, right? show up on your doorstep with the skirt i want from jcpenney. be a pink skirt girl. a bubble poodle girl. sip lychee jelly and calm. fans twirling, the bed vibrating until i had to turn it off. everything is obscene, even with fairy lights. i know how to turn the purest thing into a sex joke, i know how to think of the most brutal accident, purpose, murder. her piano like a gyrating bomb. glitter i can’t even taste anymore. the kitschy, kitschy flowers. the smears, the head cracking open. the paint, the paint underneath the collage, the imprints. the glue, the scratch, the string. the wood panelling coming undone. strip by strip. splinters to raze off these callouses. we have to pretend we are trying to slice our bodies apart. the fucked up ketchup-smeared bag. do you see now? the magazines, the gloss, the smiles with chapstick teeth. the whiteness a bland soup. the dinners where we smile, hey baby, tell me about your day. the two hour conversations that masquerade. the pimples i still can’t strawberry smear. why would i ever go for someone who smeared my lipstick but not my mascara?
who cares about loving somebody when my toes are collecting dirt. see, there is no crevice that goes unknown, unspoken. there is no punctuation of the heart, or an electric, eclectic brain.
the congealing bronze of the space heater, spittle on the first day of june. the air conditioner whizzing a jetsons melody. the smiling sun with half a nose, half eyebrows— no, full.
the red light, the red light, the red light.
let this be my spontaneous combustion note. teach me what lithium feels like. i want to know what it means to rub satin against our barest cells. the needling pinpricks of careful pen art. the stores with their machine signs, their computer lyrics. the boxes booming out static. vapors in this stratosphere of our construction. we only know how to to zoom past the ceiling, the clouds. i wanted those sewing machine seams to run through my fingernails until i couldn’t pick at my cuticles anymore. i wanted the unfathomable blood, the pulling of splinters out of strange spaces. the pieces of blue glass, like my nose or eyes or ears or mouth meant anything. the sheets caught against my yellowing, unflossed teeth. string these kites to eternity. the phantom pain to concentrate on. i don’t know how to be anything but psychotic. you are flinging me no scripts. i need to know. just tell me the words to say. please just tell me the words to say.
Drive me extinct. The hardest part is that we are all just trying so fucking hard.