I sit at the knees of pleasure
with wet nightmares and a dry mouth,
slack-jawed, wide open
daring to ask for more.
I no longer fear Desire, the thing that precedes me;
the thing that drove me to the very edge of myself, to where you live.
There’s a hole in the roof of my mouth
where a gun ought to be. I’ll let you reload it,
won’t break eye contact the whole time,
won’t even ask where you got the bullets.
You said once that you don’t understand my writing but you still liked it. I wondered
what that meant; if we could ever really know each other the way we knew ourselves.
Well, I remember almost everything, like how I never got the supreme pleasure of
jacking you off while you drove me home. But you did, still, drive me home.
I want to be the road, not the dead air in your car.
I sit at the knees of pleasure with a bullet in the back of my throat,
which I guess is a way of saying that I’d let you do what you wanted
with me, if you’d only ask.
So what of infidelity?
O, find me in another body and fuck me back to life!
Whoever dreamt up monogamy had a fetish for torture,
and fetishes are fine and all, but don’t make it my problem.
I’m not in the business of denying myself pleasure
or punishing you for your Desire, the very thing that drove you to my house,
the thing that keeps me thinking about you all these years later.
Do you understand now? I sit at the knees of pleasure
wanting you, still. Kiss your girlfriend and think of
how badly you once wanted me, too. You could be the car
and I could be the road. Save the guilt for the real sinners.
Our Desire doesn’t make us bad, but it does make us.
Featured photo supplied by author.
