"God," he says, leaning back against the wall,
Hands in the pockets of his jacket. Black.
Faux leather. I think that he is cool. "These
People are cunts. They're cunts."
The curse rings out in me, my ears,
Like cunts, cunts, cuh-uh-uh-uh-unts.
There's beat enough in it to make a girl
Dance, shake, grimy because the word's forbidden.
I think of people slut-dropping in clubs.
He's kind of dirty when he's angry. He talks
Like the deep grind of a stuck zipper. I can tell he
Grinds his teeth. The big soft lips twitch, and twitch.
His eyebrows claw down into his face and his eyelashes
Flutter, like trapped insects in the night.
"I hate it when they do this." We're talking about my
Pain. Something I wouldn't normally suggest
For a topic, but he's the only person I can
Truly talk about pain with, without laughing it off
Too much or making an excuse. He knows me.
He looks me in the eyes and tells me
Silently, and very angrily, that he can't stand it,
And he fucking loves
Me, there's no other way to say it,
He doesn't know how to say it – I wish
I could write you a poem
, I can see he thinks.
But there are too many thoughts in him.
He's brutal as sex, as puppy-love.
There's this sudden image of have of him
Flexing his fingers to relish the sting of a punch
He administered to somebody's face, laughing,
Manic, my protector, GBH. "If you want me to do something -
I will. I can wait outside the gates."
We're outside of the cinema.
It's getting dark, and he pulls me into him
And the grey t-shirt he wears, wraps his arms around,
Squeezes – "I don't want to let them hurt you", he says,
Slightly hurting me. "I won't let them".
He cradles my head, and I can just see his eye,
His dark crow's eye. It stares ahead determined.
Sometimes he scares me.
"One day this will all go away, you know". Yes, yes I know,
I think, while we both teeter
On a madness neither of us will escape
And you won't really believe. First love
In the face of the oppressor, and the non-believers,
And these people.