The Storm That Itches

who the fuck are you?

and don’t lie this time

I’m not talking to you—I’m talking at you

like thunder

like a question asked too many times to be innocent

-

you think you saw me once

a girl on a slick floor

barefoot, like a ritual dancer

but no one walks toward a storm

unless they are the storm

-

you thought I’d be soft

like thighs or feelings

like petals or pliancy, ripe for ruin

like something you'd pull aside and dig into

but my thorns

will leave you leaking, see?

they’re all around the bones

-

I whisper quantum

you picture cunt

I say entanglement

you think it’s a kink

and maybe it is—

maybe my atoms are still stuck to someone else's

the one who left

the one who never was

she left / or I left / or she never even fit

tell me again, which me it was

-

or fuck it—

Let’s talk about you,

you who wanted

thrust, not theory

you who wanted

holes, not particles

to come

not to come apart

-

and now you’re irked?

because I talk like someone

who licked the edge of the observable universe

and licked again,

bloody hell,

because I say wavefunction with the same mouth

I use to spit on your name?

is that it?

-

and here's the part that burns—

you’re itchy too, aren’t you?

your skin don’t fit right

you pull at it when you’re alone

two fingers, tight circles, silence—your kind of prayer

(trip the velvet, polish the pearl,

press your heel against the goddamn nerve

until your vision blurs and I'm still there)

-

Right?

and you think that’ll help?

Really? Sorry.

-

I am under your nails now

I am inside your reflection

I am the name you forget

and the face you dream of

before the screaming starts

-

so go on

ghost me

explain me away to your mates

"bitch was mental"

"sad dyke with a god complex"

"hot, though"

-

and I’ll just giggle

like the storm

you thought was weather

but was really me—

open-mouthed, open-legged,

and fucking infinite, asking

who,

the fuck,

are you?

.