For Services Rendered
Hit me, he says. No, it will make you feel better. The crush of a bystander’s fist into an enemy’s abandoned weapons makes spectators turn into gladiators, sometimes. I believe it’ll happen in you. Everything will be all right because I don’t believe in fear.
Kiss me, he says. Yes, now is fine, whenever. A mouth can make things. I like watching parodies and auburn forest fires when people let their roots of love burst into heart-shaped flames. That’s why lips have the look of melted hearts. (Cut me out one if you can.) I know your lips can make things.
Fuck me, he says. Yes, burrow into whatever protection I can give you. I’ve got this body if you’ve lost yours. No, really, that’s everything I have and it’s never been mine. Take me, take this. Before the body loses its willingness to mold, dropping all of its use into the pockets of whoever passes it. You’re still making new things, and this body’s just old change.
Leave me, he says. No, yes, go. I’ve been dried up and strung out for too long now. I don’t know how to carry a body in the bowl of my hips anymore. I’ve got a hollow back bone and not much to bet on it now. Sure, leave me, before what this body was catches up with its rendered services, and I’m gone.
And anyway: I never wanted you to be waiting for the clap of air that takes back the space where this blunt instrument hung itself. Once, I thought that you and I could make things together. Once, I waited for the day you could.
Meet me, he said. I’ve never seen you before. But I believe that kindness is supposed to tread over the backbones that have lost the bodies they were meant to carry. So other bodies will follow. Other bodies will do. Everything will be all right. I don’t believe in fear.
I am a tool that can unmake itself.
(Image source: The Guardian)