twenty-first

today
is my twenty-first birthday.

some people are asking me
what i want. what do i want?
i say, i don’t want anything.
i make up something
funny to distract them and change the subject.

there are a lot of real
things i could want. like to just
stop watching. i could want my dog back, who
silently listened to everything i ever said
and never spoke a word. i could say i wanted
nothing but for my boy’s chest behind my back
rising and falling rhythmically to the nervous beat
of my heart.

i could say i needed the misty
irish landscape and the friends who came with it
back, or i could remind myself that i don’t
want strangers anymore. then again,
i could say that i want only sex, or money,
or video games, or clothes.

but i don’t want any of that. not really. not at all. i might pretend
that having any one of those things on my birthday
would make me able to stop wondering, stop thinking,
and quell my confusion
for more than just a few weeks or days at a time.

instead, i say nothing. it’s not worth it to explain
how much of something else i really want, especially when i’m certain
i cannot have all of it. i am ashamed
because i want to know, understand,
and possess too many things.
i am selfish and i am jealous.
i’ve been trying to convince
everyone of all of that for
so long now.
why does it surprise you when i am so?
is it because you think
you see glimpses
of another me within?

i haven't had enough to drink yet.

but there are some nights--
with painted nails and pounded piano
--that remind me, and then
i think i see
them, too, sometimes.

7.6.07

well, sometimes we just come to expect things
and all the blue-grey nights aren't worthless.

i just wanted to continue to feel like you wanted me
and it wasn't just the alcohol. i remember asking
how drunk are you? and you saying you weren't.
and that you wouldn't do something
you didn't want to. i made you promise that you wouldn't just
get off and leave. you peered back at me and in the
slits of light i saw only what i wanted to see. or maybe we both did.

my favorite part was when you told me,
you have a comfortable body and a comfortable bed.
i don't know about my body but
i believe you about the bed. i should have known, though,
when you just kept telling me how funny i was.
as i said before i just liked
listening to you breathe, even if it did make me nervous.

you stayed only as long as you had to--thanks for trying, at least.
more studying the next morning. it was light in the room then and in my mouth
i tasted what i decided to believe was hope, or maybe
it was just leftover alcohol
from yours.

i'd share the name with you, if i could
i can't help but feel estranged from it
like it's not really mine anymore. like many things,
i might have outgrown it. i wish i didn't feel
you are taking something from me but one of us shouldn't
have it because i still want more from you.

it's hard not to think about you
and it's hard not to
take it all so very personally
because when i call to myself
the only way i know how,
you come with me.

adriatico

here,
all must let something out into the adriatic.

when we travel,
there are bags and cases
wherein we stuff pieces of the landscape and take them away with us.

we sleep, knowing and trusting that the capsules will transport our memories safely home.
some are made and taken in photographs,
glowing screens and lightning flashes
that capture thunderstorms in megapixels.

how many are involuntary? burned into memory instead under the clear water;
moments of entropy when some remove clothes to let it penetrate.
other slash their feet and bleed,
crimson clouds billowing into the depths.

all must let something out into the adriatic.
and all must exchange it for a memory.