Jisatsu

Jisatsu sits, bleary-eyed
in front of a computer screen.

With strangers and screen names
cables and wires connect.

His fate announced
through channels of waning intimacy.

Eager fingers convey interest and curiosity.
Words made brave when spoken with hands.

Jisatsu sits, encouraged by others'
spite and the taste for blood.

Friends and followers; foes
waiting with baited breath.

Watching a sick game--tug-of-war;
later, he'll use its rope to tie the noose.

Eyelashes brush the scope
to peer through a scratched lens.

Jisatsu swings
while the world watches on.

backseat

leaning on the hood
of a little white car
waiting
for a little white girl.

he chose her.
he wants her.
he wants a ride
to the hospital.
what can she say?
of course she'll say
okay.

little white car
backseat full of lipstick and bikinis and clumsy, desperate fumblings of inexperienced fingers and mouths.
backseat that steams and fogs and smells like deodorant and chewing gum and drugstore cologne.
backseat that isn't quite ready.
not yet.
just want to know it's right.
wants it to be special, perfect.
like the first time should be.

clawing and crying and tearing and pushing back
scratches down his back.
wrists just small enough;
backseat just big enough.

little white girl
he chose her.
'cause he's ready.
knows it's right.
special.
perfect.

conception

i thought there was life inside of me.
i told you so.
you believed me so
i kept on believing too.
two heartbeats,
and brains.
two tongues, whispering
the same growing lie.

but nothing grew in me
except hope and fear.

saw an expert,
"there is nothing there.
and if there were,
it's gone  now.
gone for good."

my empty belly aches.

a lie conceived when hope and fear
tangled their sweaty legs,
hair and fingers twisting
and turning
making nothing more than shallow breaths and gritted teeth.

for two-hundred and eighty days
a phantom swims in me.
fluttering and sighing and filling me up.

but the ghost is not there.
and if it were,
it's gone now.
gone for good.

shoelaces

come undone,
untied,
like shoelaces.

a loose thread pulled,
unraveling;
my sweater's gone
and i'm naked
bruises showing.

pretend that they're not there;
that they haven't always been there (been there all along).

you're undone.
unraveling.
untied.
my stitches will be soon.

the taste of blood
not foreign to my mouth,
but the dish you're serving it in is.
everyone's watching me
eat it.
weighing my reaction.

but my hands are tied
tied to you.
tied by plans we made
love we made
bed we made
now we have to sleep in it.

i've cut cords before, mostly.
but always end up
tying up.
bound to one another
sharing our noose.

you tied me down.
told me this is what love looks like; this is how you hit.

years of hanging by a thread
filled with knots and frays and dirt and blood and spit.
now it's tied around my finger so i won't forget.

i'm barefoot and
naked and
my bruises are healing and
the taste of blood receding and

we're undone. untied. like shoelaces.