Mo’ Mots

I spit, I choke,
cough, and sputter.
I don’t know what
to say. The muse
denies her song
to me and keeps
my words at bay.
The clock runs fast;
my mind, too slow.
Sludge through a sieve,
my mind keeps thoughts
not out but in.
But the blank space
demands a scrawl
of text to fill
the void. My voice
is gone, yet still
the cursor blinks:
I I I I

It’s not you–
it’s me. I love you …
I’m not in love with you.
I’m commitment-phobic.
Let’s just be friends.
It was just sex.
We should see other people
(I’m gay). I need some space,
I’m too busy.
You deserve better.
There’s no more mystery,
no more romance, no more chase.
“Irreconcilable differences.”
I need to do this for myself.
I don’t do long distance.
Let’s have an open relationship.
How about another girl?
I need a break
(up).

Cut me up, stitch me closed.
Stone me for what I’ve done.
My womb is wound
I wear proudly,
as a warrior in tatters
toeing the line
between fuck and fight.

we are so oppressed once i thought it was funny to think that it wasn’t me i was safe but then there she was crying in a room full of women all staring blank faced like when they were staring at me trying to undress trying to hit on me smack that pussy on the street at 2 a.m.  a woman has no business sitting on those concrete steps but we were there strength in numbers but then why we did we feel so exposed to those boring eyes exposed to the night air the man who came to shake our hands only made it worse trying to be nice when he didn’t realize we are so oppressed he is the enemy we must not touch him make eye contact he is what makes us scared grab our purses clutch to our laps they called from the cars fucked with their eyes greedy with lust and power and privilege and possession what could we do but pretend that it would be over it wasn’t uncomfortable this was normal back to our homes

Do you remember Gary’s high water jeans and Mrs. Fletcher’s bald spot softened by her bouffant bird’s nest hair? Do you remember that stolen kiss on senior prom, the feel of your cheap synthetic waistcoat, that stickiness of youth and arousal and polyester sweat? When you burned your lip waxing your new moustache. When we did in movie theaters what we could not at home. That escape from scholastic prison and that golfcart asshat yelling after us. That feeling that we didn’t belong. That hope.