I evoke a tied tongue. I am some kind of sexual assassin carrying bombs. I know how to use knives and harbor an array of them in my night table. I have thick hair, strands strong enough to choke with. I’m kind of feral sexy but it’s not about the looks.
I am an earnest and warm listener. I have answers. I know some things because I’m nearly twenty years older than you. You forgive when I don’t have answers, when you’re aware.
I’m a witch but with wings. You survey me and call me beautiful. You remark on my work in what I imagine are whispers. You steer clear, disappear, reappear. You want me to know you but you remain out of reach. I appreciate that.
I have it easy. I have some kind of mysterious life that you don’t totally understand, so you fill in boxes. I have magic you find elusive. I am sometimes wicked. I am easy to talk shit about.
We are in a relationship. Somehow we know we are meant for each other though it’s never said. Ever. We like everything about each other, even the parts we don’t understand. We understand enough. We are also each of us old enough to know that fantasies are preferable to reality.
I am aloof when with you. I am bombastic elsewhere. This is noticed. This is judged quietly.
At times I am benevolent but you’ve witnessed my forked tongue and are left with questions about my intentions. I appear unfazed by your conflict in feeling about me. I always extend warmth to you, you are easy to love, even when I have conflicted feelings about you, too.
I am not: Latinx enough, lesbian enough, bi enough, queer enough, young enough, sexy enough, tough enough, down enough, intellectual enough. Yet I remain in your mind’s eye for some annoying reason.
It’s too painful for you to acknowledge me directly, so you tweet about how much something I’ve written has impacted you without tagging me, like you’re speaking to a crowd I’m a part of, never once looking at me.
Warm energy transfusions flow back and forth between us. Softness. There’s safety and nourishment here. There is no reason to be afraid.
You notice that I don’t give you the attention you get so easily from so many others. I am not of interest, except as a moth that gets in, flutters by a light bulb, then finds a place on the wall, still. I am always watching.
Honestly, it’s such a relief when there are zero waves of sexual energy being emitted, when we can like each other, appreciate each other’s sense of humor, and no one’s pants get tight or wet.
Who is this bitch, you wonder, who came out of nowhere…well, somewhere… you did notice me, but I was always on the periphery and now…well, who is this bitch?
You’re on another level. Another tier. Another planet. You prefer it this way. When we meet you do know my name but after you write it once you trust I am no competition and go back to giving face to the ones who actually matter.
I don’t exist since the day you decided I don’t exist. Your friends know otherwise.
We have watched each other for a while and it’s before I bring the drink to my lips that I already know you’ll admit your crush. You know to take the lead with me, do. I disappoint you with dumb face emoji replies that I send while smirking.
You can’t decide if it’s me who’s changed, you who’s changed, or the landscape we’re in front of. Either way, you like me well enough, there’s nothing to fear, it’s friendly, but you’re learning you must carry a minimum amount of mistrust on you at all times. You fold it into a tiny square and put it in your pocket when we talk.
Is it because you also talk dreams and jump from deep subject to deep subject, rapid-fire neuronal blitzkreig while under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol? Or is it a base pheromone? I decide it’s inconsequential and you feel that shift over thousands of miles.
I’m a fucking bully. I’m a low-key ruiner seeping ruination. I’m getting what I don’t deserve. I’m a sham. You can’t stop looking.
I approve, adore, pet, like, heart, laugh. I might be judging you but you don’t see it. It’s hard to know what people are really thinking. You know you’re interesting to look at and you know you say interesting things. I can’t stop looking.
I said the right things, surprising you, and you don’t know how else to be when flattered. You want the gossip to be the right kind. It’s not. In fact, I’m onto you. You eventually tell yourself I never meant what I said, especially when I don’t heart all your selfies.
Please let’s just get sauced and fuck. We don’t have to tell anyone. But then how would either of us write about it? Forget it. Impossible. You text me something inane and I understand completely.
I have all the time in the world. I give in abundance. I am the recipient of so much luck. Oops! I mean I am the recipient of so much talent. You ponder this as I (probably) go hiking under a glorious sun with nothing else to worry about or do today but write and be free and do and wear whatever I want.
I was no one, was someone, you invited me to things, then I was no one again until you retweeted me. It doesn’t matter how I feel about you because why would it? I suppose it’s possible I could see through you…but who fucking cares? I don’t have the beauty power or money, bitch!
I am warm. I am effusive. I am nurturing. I am old. I am ancient and it’s questionable if the things I know are even still relevant but something compels you to listen anyway. You’re going places and it helps that I stay in relatively the same place.
I was never who you imagined I was after all. You’re sorry for everything you shared with me. I am beyond a disappointment. You don’t like the word ‘evil’ but you have applied it here and there to my nature. I’m not worthy of your tears but I can’t convince you of that.
I am not an intellectual or an academic. I’ve made it clear. You don’t even have to spend another moment on me, won’t.
Our secrets are bound up in one another’s to the point that we are mute about one another’s existence. My name has no place in your mouth. There is nothing you have to say about any of it and you forget/remember/forget that I am capable and desire to say everything…in my own way.
I am so far outside the lines you want to bring me in. I am indeed a little feral and you like that. I’m a test and I’m a marathon. You signed up before I even knew what was happening. I’m a test. I’m a test. I’m a test.
How is my keel so even? How do I get from Point A to Point Z so fast? How do I seem to have everything under control? How is it that so many people like me? How is it that you can’t have what I have?