Don’t forget love. It will bring all the madness you need to unfurl yourself across the universe.
When you fall for me,
do not hold back.
It needs reminder that in the infinity of time,
we are here only
for an excruciatingly short second.
I am here.
I am here now.
You not wanting me was the beginning of me wanting myself. Thank you.
If you can’t see a difference
between now and then,
consider yourself one of the lucky ones;
Your clock ticks at normal speed,
and your heart beats on average.
Stop faking your fucking orgasms. Society already tells young men that they run the fucking universe. If they can’t turn your cunt into a shooting star, then for god’s sake, let them know about it.
Perhaps I am an easy lay,
But I’m not making it easy for you
when you call me in the middle of the night,
begging to taste the heaven in my cunt.
I’m making it easy for me.
So don’t, for a second, think
that my libido
has anything to do
with fulfilling your desire.
Because when I say ‘the pleasure was mine,’
the pleasure was mine.
When life brings you down to your knees, give life a blow job; then get back up, spit the cum in life’s face, and skip away like the princess that you are.
If ‘everything is temporary’ is permanent,
is everything temporary?
If the actuality that I only live once
is the only reality that I,
as a conscious being,
why then could the tangible particles of my being
partake in the molecular existence of other things—
things that prevailed before I was born
and will triumph after I die?
If I am not me, then who is?
If I am everything,
then why do I feel like I am nothing?
My creative writing professor told me to stop writing about love. I asked him why, and he said, “Because you have turned it over and over in your hands, felt every angle, every fault, every inch, every bruise. You have ruined it for yourself.” I spend the next three weeks writing about science and space. Stars exploding. Getting sucked into a black hole. How much I wished I could sleep inside of that nothingness without being annihilated. What an exploding star would taste like. If it would make our stomachs glow like fireflies, or tingle and shake like pop rocks under our tongues.
My creative writing professor told me that those poems weren’t what he was looking for. He tells me to stop writing about outer space. Stop writing about science. Again, I ask him why. Again, he says ,“You have ruined it for yourself.” I spend the next three weeks writing about my mother, how we are told we can’t make homes inside of other human beings. But the foreclosure sign on my mother’s empty womb tells me that women who give birth know a different and more painful truth.
My creative writing professor tells me I am both talented and hopeless, that everything I write is both visceral and empty—a walking circus with no animals inside but a beautiful trapeze artist with a broken hip selling popcorn in the entranceway. He tells me to stop writing about my mother. I don’t ask why. I pick up my books and my notepad, and I leave his office with my war stories tucked under my tongue like an exploding star, like the taste of the last person I ever loved, like my mother’s baby thermometer. And I do not look back.
We are all writing about our mothers, our lovers, the empty space that we will never be able to breathe in. We are all carrying stones in our pockets and tossing them back and forth in our hands, trying to explain the heaviness. And we will never stop writing about love, about black holes, about how quiet it must have been inside the chaos of my mother’s belly, inside the chaos of his arms, inside the chaos of the spaces in every poem I have ever written.
None of this is ruined. Do not listen to them when they tell you that it is.
Perhaps we are in this world to search for love, find it and lose it, again and again. With each love, we are born anew, and with each love that ends we collect a new wound. I am covered with proud scars.
If this is indeed true,
then I am a living, breathing callus.
Someone’ll peel me over and over again
And I’ll bleed,
And I’ll weep,
And I’ll love
But I’ll never have enough time to heal.