tallonrk1
12-01-2015, 03:56 AM
There is nothing left to say.
I could tell you about how his eyes
never meet mine and yet I go into his room every day.
I could tell you about my body
leaning against the wall as he
sits in bed
watching The Walking Dead.
I could tell you about the woman
that breaks his hard face
into a smile— rolling onto the pillow/
knocked over from laughing too hard—
and I watch her rub his arm
as they ask me to leave.
I could tell you all of this,
but there is nothing left to say,
and you already know all of this.
You already know
that what we see in the world is not actually there—
a double vision—
seeing the person you love dismiss your affection
and still being able to tell yourself that you deserve love.
I could tell you
that I told my friend
about finding out that he’s straight,
that he’s ****ed women,
and she tells me I should still talk to him
and try to be friends with him
and swallow down the pain
and I tell her
that I don’t know what matters anymore.
And she takes a shot of vodka,
lays down on the floor,
and falls asleep.
But you already know all of this.
A double vision—
like getting knocked down
and being able to tell yourself
that you won’t stay down forever.
I could tell you all of this,
but you’ve already felt this before.
Felt what?
The fragility of the body—
scars in our palms
from every hand never touched.
Veins trapped beneath the skin
and trying to push out.
Like I’m trapped beneath the skin
and trying to push out/
a second birth
out of my own womb
like we’re trapped by our own biology
trapped in a gay body
trapped in a male body
and wanting to step out of the skin
like a snake molting its coat
a double vision—
getting knocked down
and wanting to rise out of the body,
if only to get back up somehow. We are different
people beneath the skin.
He plays Christmas music for her.
“Baby, It’s Cold Outside”
When he leaves the room,
she tells me about mixed signals
and the pain of having a crush on him.
But you already know all of this.
I could tell you about how his eyes
never meet mine and yet I go into his room every day.
I could tell you about my body
leaning against the wall as he
sits in bed
watching The Walking Dead.
I could tell you about the woman
that breaks his hard face
into a smile— rolling onto the pillow/
knocked over from laughing too hard—
and I watch her rub his arm
as they ask me to leave.
I could tell you all of this,
but there is nothing left to say,
and you already know all of this.
You already know
that what we see in the world is not actually there—
a double vision—
seeing the person you love dismiss your affection
and still being able to tell yourself that you deserve love.
I could tell you
that I told my friend
about finding out that he’s straight,
that he’s ****ed women,
and she tells me I should still talk to him
and try to be friends with him
and swallow down the pain
and I tell her
that I don’t know what matters anymore.
And she takes a shot of vodka,
lays down on the floor,
and falls asleep.
But you already know all of this.
A double vision—
like getting knocked down
and being able to tell yourself
that you won’t stay down forever.
I could tell you all of this,
but you’ve already felt this before.
Felt what?
The fragility of the body—
scars in our palms
from every hand never touched.
Veins trapped beneath the skin
and trying to push out.
Like I’m trapped beneath the skin
and trying to push out/
a second birth
out of my own womb
like we’re trapped by our own biology
trapped in a gay body
trapped in a male body
and wanting to step out of the skin
like a snake molting its coat
a double vision—
getting knocked down
and wanting to rise out of the body,
if only to get back up somehow. We are different
people beneath the skin.
He plays Christmas music for her.
“Baby, It’s Cold Outside”
When he leaves the room,
she tells me about mixed signals
and the pain of having a crush on him.
But you already know all of this.