To Be, To Feel
Me: coffee stained and insubstantial,
eyes shuttering seconds longer
than it actually takes to blink,
the weight from all the dreams
interrupted, adding gravity
to my lids, my yawns, my lethargic hands
lift coffee cup to lips
that fall open to the aroma,
slightly burnt, a little strong
and the memory of energy.
Me: driving to the dojo not for self defense
or self-discipline,
but so I can feel skin to skin,
the popping of bones, joints cracking,
creaking in arm bars and wrist locks,
knuckles reddened and bruised
from contact with the bag,
of sweat stained gloves in my face,
someone else’s fist making impact
with my lower orbital
so I may feel my body in pain
and hear the impact of bone.
Me: not tired but wrung out
pulled taut between two objects
and violently twisted
until all the moisture,
all the emotion drips
out of me, body left
limp and faded,
harshly dried.
Me: bruises mapping continents
on the inside of my thighs.
I imagine they’re from
your hands as you hold me down
while my body spasms and arches
higher, before crashing
into your bruising lips –
but there is no you
and there are no hands
no kisses, no teeth, no nails,
no tongue lapping at the shoreline
along the creases of my body,
just my own fingers
pinching skin, squeezing nerves
to remind myself
I am here.
