I talk to you, walking home.
You tell me stories of bananas,
I say I’m more complex than undertones.
I share freely. I don’t understand me.
You attribute meaning as you wish.
I walk, cold right finger.
You tell me that you casually have sex with friends.
I negotiate. We push and pull.
Closer than ever, propositioning subtly.
Like my lip bites today.
beautiful eyes. Cute accent.
Lovely smooth skin, straight hair.
Small nose, well proportioned face.
Bright eyes. Awake, aware, questioning. Wanting,
wondering. And I have to pull away.
Keeping it all professional.
And you proposition me, and I speak honestly.
Nonsense. And fear. What if the next time we spend together isn’t as good.
What if this was the best and I lose you.
I wish to cling, cling to the moment.
Hoping, asking, fearing, screaming-
screaming ‘i’m sorry’. Because this was the best you ever had.
The love you most, most felt love.
you and me you fucking.
me you amid friendship, circles of cells, round, spinning tops.
Bra falling and a friend telling you that you’re ugly.
I see my friends as beautiful.
I should get away. Free of time, of people. Energized.
Angry at home under storm cloud. Shrunked heart.
Woney, white, rob handing hanging cotton rope.
Belt and tie and racialization.
Black black black.
And I tell you truths as best I can,
though I don’t understand me.
“I think when I have sex with someone it all changes, I don’t speak to them, we fucked up, emotional attachment, a barrier, a shade, shadow, change”. The game changes. The want happens more. The guild. The pins, the blurts the head laugh. And there I am, telling you that I change if I have sex with you. We’d become less close. You say: “Well that changes everything, I’ll never sleep with you now” And I say: “GOOD”.
But I know not to ask the real question.
“You’re not the same? Where are they now”
The others that you kept talking to.
I have a power none other than myself controls.
A masculine, locked.