There are so many things I’m not allowed to tell you.
I touch myself, I dream.
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.
The musicians start the overture while I hide behind the microphone,
trying to match the dubbing
to the big lips shining down from the screen.
We’re filming the movie called Planet of Love-
there’s sex of course, and ballroom dancing,
fancy clothes and waterlilies in the pond, and half the night you’re
a dependable chap, mounting the stairs in lamplight to the bath, but then
the too white teeth all night,
all over the American sky, too much to bear, this constant fingering,
your hands a river gesture, the birds in flight, the birds still singing
outside the greasy window, in the trees.
There’s a part in the movie
where you can see right through the acting,
where you can tell that I’m about to burst into tears,
right before I burst into tears
and flee to the slimy moonlit riverbed
canopied with devastated clouds.
We’re shouting the scene where
I swallow your heart and you make me
spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls
right out of my mouth.
You swallow my heart and flee, but I want it back now, baby. I want it back.
Lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, I didn’t want to see it this way,
everything eating everything in the end.
We know how the light works,
we know where the sound is coming from.
Verse. Chorus. Verse.
I’m sorry. We know how it works. The world is no longer mysterious.

This morning I woke up and decided to tell the truth.
I am not okay, and I don’t think that any of us are,
and I don’t think that we need to apologize for it.
Friends call to make plans and I say yes,
instantly regretting it. If it’s not alcohol,
it’s getting high, it’s music so loud my bones hum.
It’s driving around and making promises with our pinkies
or throwing up on the side of the street or kissing
each other so violently that we’re swallowing hair,
wisdom teeth. It’s loneliness so deep in my stomach
it’s in my womb and kneecaps. I’m writing this because
I fucking want you to feel something. I want you to
sweat me out like a fever. Okay, okay, listen:
I want to be a new girl but it’s these old habits.
We’re all so warm and feeling and I can’t quite
get this taste out of my mouth. We fling love around
like we don’t expect to get it back. It feels like
only yesterday my mother was kissing my scrapes
and bruises. Only yesterday I was learning to tie my shoes,
snap my fingers, be trusted with the delicate task
of dressing myself. I don’t think it’s safe here anymore.
Empty out your chest and get ready to run.

- Kristina Haynes, “May 2014” (via fleurishes)

i walk in i see you i watch you i scan you i wait for you i tickle you i tease you i search you i breathe you i talk i smile i touch your hair you are the one you are the one i feel you i ask you i don’t ask i don’t wait i won’t ask you i lie i am crying hard there was blood no one told me no one knew my mother knows i forgot your name i don’t think i bury my head i bury you my fever my skin i cannot breathe i cannot eat i cannot walk i am losing time i am losing ground i cannot stand it i cry i cry out i bite i bite your lip i breathe your breath i pulse i pray i pray aloud i smell you on my skin i say the word i say your name i cover you i shelter you i run from you i sleep beside you i smell you on my clothes i keep your clothes

Projections by Jenny Holzer; Florence, 1996