Float On (Sensory Deprivation Blog)

What I never say when I need to say it OR why I am always sorry:

 .

I understand silence more than I understand how to explain anything about myself

My heart is a many headed beast that eats its young;

 .

a fickle monster terrified of its own speak

I will never know how to tell you how to love me

 .

I will never know how to show you I love you

I will apologize

 .

too late

for everything

 .

It will sound evasive and stubborn and

believable

 .

It will limp into you, sloppily, wearing stilettos

with broken straps

 .

and your favorite dress; an irresistible disheveled that

will purr into you

 .

We will deal with the hang over

some other time and

 .

some other time and

some other time until

 .

we forget each other’s bodies and hands and

beast-hearts

 .

altogether. We will always blame the floozy

in the broken stilettos

 .

I will know the first step is admitting the problem

I will stand at the edge of it silent and paralyzed

 .

like it is a drowning water when

I want nothing more than to sink into you

 .

with all of me

Even when you are gone

 .

there are still wandering, belligerent stilettos

apologizing

 .

too late

for everything

 .

.

Why none of that matters, anyway OR why I am always sorry:

 .

I live inside such a quiet love

you have to put your ear against its nose to know

 .

it is breathing

Sometimes you try to shake it

 .

awake

and think you are shaking a brick house

 .

with no doors, built

from the inside

 .

The voice leaking through the walls is so small

you can’t tell what language

 .

it is speaking

You ask it all the questions,

 .

sometimes twice

pressing your cheek, hard

 .

against the brick until your skin breaks

You wonder when that tiny voice will turn into a hand and

 .

gauze yourself with what bleeds you

When that does not come

 .

you wonder when my hands became black capes

Say they are phantoms

 .

Say you swear they touched your face before

Say you will not leave without proof they are still hands

 .

Our bed is

miles of in between

 .

You wonder when my body disappeared behind rice paper; the way

it’s become more allegory than human

 .

Wonder if it eats clouds, the way it seems to

shape-shift without touching the ground

 .

But the sky never made you feel alone the way

I make you feel alone

 .

So you think I am more

moonless graveyard than cloud-swallow

 .

feeling like you are lost in

a haunted dark that

 .

refuses to tell you

the names of its ghosts