imagine if girls used the same style of joke to degrade men like “cool story bro now go chop some lumber”GO CHOP SOME LUMBER
"what r u doing out of the garage go fix my car"
"Don’t you have something to fix somewhere."
get some duct tape & fix that attitude
Don’t you have some jars you could be opening?
you could ask me out
if you wanted.
i’m not the most available
not the most emotionally attainable
i’m practically unable
to commit to a pair of socks,
let alone anything worthwhile.
but sometimes i talk to you
and i feel as though my breath
is caught between my lungs and my windpipe
waiting for you to ask, ask me something, anything
so that it can fight it’s way out
clawing out that single whisper of a ‘yes’.
i don’t like to touch sometimes
i’ve spent too many days wishing
that their touch would go away
instead of being lingering fingerpaint on my skin
and inky smudges on my insides
but if you held out your hand and your
palm touched mine
i would probably not say,
i think it might be easier
if i could tell you this face to face
if you could look me in the eye
and see it etched into my eyelashes,
because if i had you to look at
i would spend far less time blinking
so as not to waste all that seeing.
but i don’t.
i think it might be nice
if you would ask me out
because i’m not afraid of making the first move
i’m afraid of something real.
something tangible, identifiable, untainted, untarnished.
i am afraid that if you touched me
the way i wanted you to
my skin would burst to flames
and in it’s place i would be naked.
a selfish, naked, wanting thing.
i am afraid because if i take that leap
it will push me into water so deep
that no matter how much you loved me
if you loved me (love me) at all,
i would sink.
love has turned me from water to clay
and hardened me to stone
until the waters i came from break around me.
i am not afraid, i am terrified.
but if you asked me
i would tie an anchor to my ankle
there’s a monster under my bed.
his eyes are cloaked in red,
and every move he makes
quakes with the force of his ego.
this monster is unstoppable,
a f o r c e to be reckoned with
and i, well i am the lamb in front of the lion
waiting to be slaughtered.
waiting to lose myself to tooth and claw,
forced to watch as my body sticks to his fur
like it’s electric, and the river i was
is conducting his show,
like nothing has ever been my own.
blood soaks my skin as it splits his russet furs;
he wears it like a badge of honor.
'that much better to drown you with, dear.'
that much better to choke you with
as he shoves the bile down my throat
and i pretend i am swallowing it back.
i am done waiting for him to swallow me whole.
there’s a mirror under my bed
and i’m afraid to look, because if i do
i know i will see my own red irises,
teeth long and deadly as they sink through skin
as if pain will make the reflection go away.
i have to look, anyway.
there’s a monster in my bed.
i carry him on my back as he growls
into my ear, and i listen.
i listen because pushing the lamb from the cliff
was the hardest
thing i’ve ever done.
i am the monster in my bed,
and i will be the firelight to see us through.