Ars nova, ars subtilior

You don’t know what to say to me. You don’t know what I’ll understand. And if you do say something, you don’t know how I’ll take it. So you say nothing. You decide it’s not worth the risk. Your mood changes like moonrise over dirty latitude. You raise a blade. You tighten your grip on an edge hard as unreturned love. You didn’t expect that when I resurfaced, I’d be smiling through wet hair. You got me good there, then you got me bad. But though I blow you off, it’s all pretend. I pray for you to land your gaze on me like a rocket ship, settling into the red dust of a ridge on an aching planet. But when the astronaut radios back to Houston, Houston says, go fuck yourself. Cut the bullshit. Drop the line. Oh, judge me all you like. Old habits, new passions. Stigmata freckling my torso like stars, wheeling. Punish me all you like, with everything you say and don’t.

You don’t know why I am the way that I am. You don’t know what I’ll misunderstand. And if you do try to get through to me, you don’t know how I’ll take it. So you do nothing. You tell everyone what you think you know about me. You try to protect me, or is that wishful thinking? I giggle like an idiot, my mind barking like a panicked dog in the backroom. I couldn’t grant you the satisfaction of knowing me even if I wanted. Let’s play a different game, then. Stop examining me; the body comes off the stretcher, grabs your wrist and shoulder. What are you? Who are you? When your mask comes up, stiff as I am soft on you, where do you go? Tell me everything, damn. Play me a piece of unsubtle music. I will cease my circling and, like a tame beast, come to sit in your lap. Then, like a bride, I will bite your face off. Last of the good ones. First of the bad.