Untitled Love Poem

(a rough draft so you can rip it to shreds. it's a mash-up of a lot of poetry I wrote one time and I want to see what happens when I mix it all up. which images work and which don't?)

Not even the most explosive voice could shake you out of me
My head's a carousel of dead words. There is no love when you forget to live in it.
Take me to bed. It’s quieter in bed.
There is divinity in being lost between your hair and mine and I can see your sex weep.
I can’t take you all for myself.
Without removing a thread, you undress me. This makes me yours.

Just when I’ve found my way out, it’s good to know I’m the same old joke I’ve always been.
I can hear old boiling water, someone trying to tell me another excuse as to why I can’t love them.
Why am I the one looking for an exit, when it’s you who wants to leave?

I count down every mistake that I’ve made.
Memory is a weakness, if you want to be happy.
I’m juggling the knowledge that is you.
I watch you move, the curves around your body continuously falling into the earth.
You make me think without noise.
I love you, and I only have small spaces to place it.
I love the wilderness that spirals around you like smoke,
like snakes on your shoulders,
unconstricted, unlike a crown, more like a silver reminder
that you are rarely a man
and always a boy.

You are more in my arms than I am in yours.
Love is for the healthy to get sick.
I don’t know if I’m trailing you, or continuing to chase my own tail.
I like being your despicable woman.

Others try to speak over the silence that is a fallen love, and I have no choice but to quiet them, as I’m waiting for some other Morse code saying “nevermind, nevermind”.
Silence is the invitation of desire.

Tonight I woke up with a sharp pain in my back. I stumbled out of bed and grabbed a dirty towel for my eyes.
Tomorrow, I’ll find out you’ve left, and I’ll walk down the stairs.
The day after that, I’ll scrub the white floors.
The tiles getting brighter and brighter.
Somehow, I think I was fighting you.

In these fishnet of nights, I’ve dreamt of birds so small, made to break.
It reminds me I’m a fragile mistake.

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