Ceasefire

Battle, like fighting for peace. Day and
Night. Blind tears of rage no one
Hears or knows of, save those few
I don’t horrify yet, who see me more
Clearly than I see myself.
Remember.

Stare from a corner, as though curled around
Your ankle, the back of your neck. A good kitty.
As if I could ever be carried safely, even in
Hands like those. I came alone, didn’t invite
Anyone to follow. Just to be, distilled down to a sharp
Essence.

Intent is everything, some guy said. But it ends
Alone in a bed that isn’t even all
That big, and I’m always cold as hell.
April rain, and it’s probably cold too.
And empty glass and the fucking cat
Growls in her sleep.
So do I.

Shrill and pulsate endlessly, restlessly
Not knowing what I need or want. How can anyone
Else? Pour another glass. I drink too much.
But so did Hemingway. He shot himself, you know.
The pain and darkness won.
Mine won’t.

And then the mass of you. The face.
The perfect, hot crudity of how you said
“Like a ragdoll, like I own you.” As though you don’t already.
Fixate on the depth and how much is there, or how much
I want to believe is there, or already know.
I do. I know, I said.

I know there is. I know too much and not
Enough. But I fill and flood and we start and I’m
Warm again. The heat comes back to me, in me. And maybe you.
These small things.

Even if it’s just a voice. It stops mine, finally and
We’re just breath in each other’s ears, like tongues.
Like skin under my nails, digging deeper every time. The heat
Comes and I come. Harder. And I believe everything you said.
All over again. Every single time.
Again.

Like a dream I had one night of breaking things, useless things.
I threw them all away, smashed them
Like twigs. I’m that fucking strong. I wish for a gun,
In rage and fear. In ecstasy, I resume the battle, even when you say
Stop. My glass is empty and it’s cold again.
Ceasefire, motherfucker.