The Honey

I Wanted To Save Them All

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Me, I’m Messiah

I wanted to save them all.

The angry boy with the shaved head
who lashed out and sliced raw wounds so red
a demon the moment he wakes up, but oh!
an angel baby when passed out on my bed.

I wanted to save him, I did.

The dream zombie, plagued with editing images in
his mind’s eye — the limpid gaze airbrushing the sky
to that specific shade of blue. The table at home left empty
the borrowed books, abandoned, long overdue.

I really wanted to save that one, too.

The boy without words who can’t ever explain
himself but was surprisingly fluent with his fist,
yes, the one that hands out black ‘n blue bruises
and fingerprint marks instead of a kiss.

I was always so soft around him, I know this.

The sweet sad boy whose tears were a weapon,
the one who’d cling so tightly to me and would never let go.
You hear the rattling in the cages, but you think,
Oh, but that one — he needs me so.

I really shouldn’t have left him, you know.

Then there’s that smooth-talking, whiskey-scented boy,
fresh-faced, shiny as a penny, and twice as destitute.
He’ll take you for a ride, to anywhere and everywhere except
of course, home. Going full-speed, hurtling towards alone.

God help me, I took him home.

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Mexican Stand Off

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I didn’t think I could love Stella any more until I was introduced to the sultry Mexican version. It was Stella in the curvy chalice, but this time the rim of the glass was coated with salt, margarita style.

Ay dios mio, the night was long and a parade of these Mexican Stellas kept us company. I would lick the salt from the glass, flicking my tongue out quickly and sucking on my bottom lip, delicately. He said I should stop doing that if I didn’t want the night to end early.

I like beer, but I never was good at heeding warnings.

 

 

 

Killing It Out There

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Quote of the day:

“You’re a good woman, Ana.”

Apparently, one of my multiple personalities is killing it out there.

It’s In The Bag

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duffel

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During one of our video calls, the boy suddenly stands up and tells me he has to show me something. He disappears from the frame momentarily, then returns with a big black object. He swivels the thing around in several directions to show me what turns out to be one of those huge duffel bags with a metal frame and wheels.

Boy:  I got this from one of the shops down at ISAF. I can use this for check-in luggage. What do you think?

Me:  Baby, it’s huge.  I can probably fit in there.

Boy (chuckles):  Yeah, you certainly can.

Me:  I hope you’re not planning to chop me up in pieces and stuff me in that bag.

Boy (nonchalantly):  No, no need for that. I can just chop your head off and you’ll easily fit in there.

Me:  Um.

See, at my age, dating is no longer that complicated. The most you can hope for is that the guy is not a psycho killer. Or maybe a big enough duffel bag.

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What Matters Probably

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what does it matter who we sleep with
the tangle of limbs do not discriminate
arms elbows thighs neck back spine
skin on skin is always so sublime

what does it matter
the membrane doesn’t even remember
the blood that escapes the cut
memory is at best, temporary
at worst, untrustworthy

the fragment i choose is the imprint
of your hand on my skin
the bits of hair freckles nails scars
more real than anything by far

that day you drove five hours
so that I could see the Atlantic
grit of sand in every pore
the water cold the sun low the ocean’s roar

what does it matter if we slept together
what matters probably is that we do not do that

anymore

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This Desire

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This one beckons to me.

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I haven’t forgotten
how it feels to be desired.
Though I can’t quite decide
if that is blessing or curse,
and I’m not one for remorse
or small mercies
or false memories anyway.

Anyway, it’s cruel
to just look away.
Desire wants the rapt attention
the blind affirmation
of the widening iris —
the rush of blood to cheek —
it wants its own hubris.

Any which way
but dead, or so they say.
As though the furtive glance
the promise of some romance
that dark little gleam in the eye
is everything, is anything
but a lie.

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She Says

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In that brave new world

we dare to dream about

you and I will have

interchangeable names

Your red hair will rule over

dominions mapped out

with the brown of my skin

We will dissolve together

into purest ocher

darker than this earth

will care to remember