we fuck each otherup & then;—
there’s that sound yup; you hear that sound? that satisfied silent sound.
that sound of her hair, spun up in black spinnarets which ticktickle new spots on my cold wet skin every micromoment like black spiders between the bedsheets, with fangs too minuscule to bite but venomous enough to stop your heart clean in sick seconds; her, curled up against me like a dead spider; me, too terrified to move; dogdaring myself to breathe. that sound of her temple’s pulse, thumpthumpering up against my chest, like the decaying hare’s heart, beating only now through other things; the spiders/worms crawling & curling through the munchmunchered up flesh-holes; the spot where she put a mchwahkiss on my furry chest, that sound of her chronically liquorchapped lips not wanting to quit; that satisfied silence, that quiet calm, the deepened and happy and unspeaking dead.
my tongue is shriveled to nothing; still i will speak:
listen to me: because just a minute before the silence came—; before we both took that great deep sigh and then laughed out to each other while both out of breath and i kissed your forehead with my dry lips and then you nuzzled right up next to me, so close & tight that i thought we just might merge; because just a minute ago we both sounded like the animals we are; our lovesounds seeping through the halls; and our tune is quite catchy; got the neighbors banging on the walls now too. but it doesn’t bother us none, no not at alls; no, we’ve tuckered out quick and are quick to spark up a bowl, down a glass of room temperature tapwater, and snugg off to sleep;
—the lights dim blue—
& the window is slick with the morning’s cool, condensed rain specks. the digital clock on her nightstand reads 8:04AM:• and i lame fakeyawn as she half-consciously shifts closer to my side; sleepshifting, resting her head in the curved, soft space between chestmeat and shoulder; i have actually been wide awake since sometime closer to 6. sometimes we sleep in the same bed but we mainly don’t use the bed for that. sometimes we really get to talking, actually talking, and sometimes it’s really about our actual real problems but we mainly don’t use talk for that. & i really should walk home soon and let you actually get started with your day girl but before i leave just let me ask you this one thing:
do lovers become each other?
because if that’s the case, then i think i’d rather just stay me;
and stay away from you;
& i don’t often write about sex; but girl i often write about you; none of it is romantic; actually it’s terribly spiteful and laughably immature and really rather clunky, technically speaking. i wouldn’t want my professors to see it, God no. i wouldn’t want my friends to see it, bleck. but sometimes i wish you could see it, yup; because it is every word i do not have the outright courage to say to your face. do you think that’s why we hurt each other over text message so much more efficiently? because it’s just easier to pretend like the words aren’t actually you? this must be how people remove themselves from firing a gun and killing someone; the bullet is not the bare hand. but i need to write about you, even if the words are ugly; because i can no longer talk about you; my tongue is shriveled to nothing; stilliwillspeak:
do lovers become each other?
because if that’s the case, then i just might be able to explain why i got so quiet on you all the sudden; why i stopped speaking, the way you did. see, all my life, i used to believe that my words were the ultimate power; the ultimate ways&ways&ways of getting and being got; of getting anything that’s good; anything good worth getting. but you showed me that silence was indeed the greatest power of them all; because if you say nothing, then you are nothing; nothing can hurt you, and you can hurt nothing.
i scrolled up through those text messages until the words quit making sense; that last last argument; still i had to practically get someone else to delete the conversation for me; and then your number; it was all just too painful to read; and almost too painful to erase. i don’t want to hurt anyone with my words ever again. so i just shut the fuck up.
i shut the fuck up for so long that my tongue shriveled right the fuck up; disappeared inside my throat cavity; merged with other muscle. i do not have a tongue any longer but i am stronger; little deaths are not the big one; we can live through the little deaths; we can live.
my tongue is shriveled to nothing;
& at first it was quite nice; nobody bothered me at all, no not any more; nobody can bother me. well, there are still folks who bother me; the ways&ways&ways they act, the things&things&things they say; but i never really feel inclined to respond to any of it; my tongue is shriveled to nothing! how can i speak? how can i respond? how can i make meaning? finally came peace and quiet to my life; i even quit muttering to myself when i was alone; for only misshapen mishmash dribbles from my lips and makes my thoughts trip.
my words can hurt nobody now; not with their wings clipped. my words; my lies; my various nefarious intentions; my disguised spies; i put a MUTE on them all; now nobody can be hurt; and now you cannot hurt me.
there are a few drawbacks to not having a tongue, though; everything i eat must be made into a smoothie; lasagna smoothies w/ mom’s sauce; chicken katsu smoothies from Aloha Plates downstairs; turkeycheese sandwich smoothie with classic Lays potato chip pureé. also, i cannot give good head any more; not the way you always liked. sometimes i wonder if i was just a masturbation machine for you; one which unfortunately and quite annoyingly required occasional caretaking plus a regular diet.
that’s how our relationship go;
you come and then i go.
but i think i found the best part about not having a tongue, the one which i think you enjoyed most; and it is that i no longer have to talk about the way i feel. not about anything; not ever. ever since my little episode, ever since the meds, everyone can’t quit asking me how i’m doing. how are you doing? are you doing well? hey, how have you been? tell me how you’ve been! how’s it hanging? hanging in there? hanging by a thread—by a rope;
it’s not that i don’t appreciate the sentiment; that they care. but what am i supposed to say? because if i tore open my stomach; & if i showed you my guts; & if you asked me what they really mean; believe me, you wouldn’t want that mess on your hands; you’ve got enough problems twisting all around in your insides. we all do; they growl at us when we are hungry and burble at us when they’ve got something gross to say; but the real problems are always what we never say;
& maybe the only real reason we ever say we feel a way
is to avoid naming what’s really inside,
eating us away.
my tongue is shriveled to nothing; still i will speak.
8:04AM:•; somehow we untangle our limbs; i put the music on loud; you pack me up some of that loud; and i rap out loud; and you laugh out loud; now, out loud, answer me this one last thing: you ever know exactly what a thought is before you actually say it out loud in your head? that’s what my feelings for you were like; and they only ever became realsee: fucking frightening when i started putting words to it: