Crush

Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending
that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands,
these shins, these soapy flanks.

Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure.

History repeats itself. Somebody says this.

History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,

over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.

History is a little man in a brown suit

trying to define a room he is outside of.

I know history. There are many names in history

but none of them are ours.

They are the same and they are not the

same. They are the same and they hate each other for it.

The one in front will want to

take you apart, and slowly. His deft and stubby fingers searching every

shank and lock for weaknesses. You could love this boy with all your

heart. The other brother only wants to stitch you back together.

I've been in your body, baby, and it was paradise.

Anything past the horizon
is invisible, it can only be imagined. You want to see the future but
you only see the sky. Fluffy clouds.

If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me
in a way I understand.

You keep saying I owe you, I owe… but you say the same thing
every time. Let’s not talk about it, let’s just not talk.
Not because I don’t believe it, not because I want it any different, but I’m
always saving and you’re always owing and I’m tired of asking to settle
the debt. Don’t bother. You never mean it
anyway, not really, and it only makes me that much more ashamed.

I'm the director. I'm in a helicopter.
I have a megaphone and you play along,
because you want to die for love,
you always have.