greenstorm | Wandering Mind

The Place We Don't Name

The place we don’t name has become the default,
which is backwards.
I say
I want to fuck your mouth, or
I want to fuck your ass,
or
if that isn’t where I want slide in, I say
I want to fuck you -
making you the place where your biology defies your identity,
where your biology denies your identity
an idea so far from right that wrong doesn’t even seem to cover it.
The you of you is your brain, your heart,
but I can’t lick your frontal lobe,
can’t choke myself on your brain stem until I get it all the way down my throat,
can’t suck your cerebral cortex until it engorges, then explodes.
The you of you is your brain, your heart,
but I can't sink my seeking cock into the chambers of your heart;
coax your veins slowly down over my fist;
stroke your xyphoid process until it tingles.
Instead.
Instead I touch the furrow of your body with my hands
and the furrow of your brain with my words at the same time,
in the same way,
pushing my message into the wetness – roughly, intuitively, precisely,
wanting to integrate the experiences,
using all my skill to make you crave their penetration over and over,
fucking you,
holding you,
whispering to you,
naming you
and hoping that the language we’ve left behind can hitch a ride
to where we’ve ended up.