its been a month already, don’t you know
and while I try my best to audiate away
what happened
spending every second minute hour day week
playing music and singing endlessly
somehow
I always come back to the thud/thud/thud
of your fingers on the bar
to the ring/ring/ringing
in my ears
like the aftermath of a sad soprano’s solo
(you yelled so loud)
to the sloppy slush sound of my brain
colliding with my skull
as you
rattled me round
like so much sand in a maraca.
and somehow
No matter how many times I sing
or scream
or beg
my skin still sinks back into the form of your
hard heavy hands
on my face on my waist
that feeling of being frozen as my insides melt
a puddle in your greasy gritty palms
as you gather my legs into yours
your knees leaving dents in mine
And some nights
when I’m still trying to scrub the smell of you
out of
my skin my hair my soft palate
the trickle of water down the curve of
my face my waist
reminds me of the ocean that poured from your seafoam eyes
while you did everything
and
the smooth oval of your face
intrudes into the blank space behind my eyes
and once again I’m singing endlessly
frozen as my insides melt
with the sloppy slush sound of my brain
bashing against my skull
as you drag my face to yours
and our foreheads clack together with a click
and my hair is a puddle in your greasy gritty palms
and the ring/ring/ringing in my ears
is the only distraction from
the feeling of each of your fingers
reaching around my face like spider’s legs
your middle finger digging into the back of my ear
(could you feel the thud/thud/thud of my heart)
as you rattle me round
like so much sand in a maraca
every second minute hour day week
since last month.
Floresita de Luna 