But you want her to bite, don’t you?  You want to be stained with her bleeding polish and you want that golf ball to almost sink in her throat, but not to the point of scaring you.  Last night you stood in front of the frozen mist, staring at the water oblivious to stillness.  Now place the curtain back on her eyes, fan her nails, and find somewhere else to stare.

White grapes are so boring,

so I said yes. 

My lips were violet by the end of the night. 

Too many grapes

too many pores

too many white teeth. 

Art: life’s flattering rivalry. 

As my pale olive limbs

started to crawl upon your legs,

I suspected you could be my rival.   

And a red pulp rained. 

Blood orange, you whispered. 

Blood orange, I smiled. 

The pulses of our thumbs combined

and I forgot which heart was beating. 

Hours of

squeezing and

staining and

squeezing more

squeezing and

dripping and

drinking

everything of yours

everything of mine.    

You gazed. 

I thought,

if I could paint you, I wouldn’t.  

Morning: eggs. 

The word is enough to disgust me,

the yolk pure slime. 

And then you mashed a mash

of onions ballooned my nostrils stung my brain. 

So I hid the onions

pulled your hands

with my eyes and

kissed you two more times. 

If your lips had been made of mango,

I would have eaten them. 

Strawberries I liked too

but the seeds ingrained themselves in my teeth and when I smiled

it was ugly. 

Mangos are more discreet. 

We made itto a week.

And ate boiled carrots. 

The next week, you brought pepper.

So we ate boiled carrots with pepper. 

A touch of insult to the carrot

but I kept quiet. 

Because I loved dessert:

cherry pits and

cherry stained lips

stained my lips thighs my thighs and

everything in between. 

But it still wasn’t mango. 

The following month

a phase of tomato and bread,

wheat bread with sesame seeds

and sunflower seeds

and some other seed

and oh! 

How I loved them. 

You drowned them in butter

but I kept quiet. 

Nibbling on my own seeds

itsy bitsy sharks nibbled my fingertips. 

But the tomato diced well.   

The week of nuts

I thought I heard love 

from the bottom of your lip

and the tip of my tongue,

shaved almonds resting on your cheek. 

Pistachios up and down my arms

but you kneaded them

into my skin piercing

every freckle

remnant trails black and blue.        

I still surprised you with a chocolate coconut kiss.

I was always sweet. 

But you bought gummy bears. 

Biting off heads

off arms

off paws

of gelatin

of red

and blue

and green

and orange

and yes!

Colors are pretty. 

But not those.   

I tried to dye my coconut green.But you didn’t believe me and stuck to the bears.     

Then onions. 

White onions. 

Thin raw rings

staring at me.  

From a bowl. 

On the table.   

And you actually ate them. 

Had I known you were miserable I would have added ketchup mustard five tins of pepper.   

But you mashed a mash of onions

ballooned my nostrils

stung my brain,

burnt my nerves, 

egg yolk now slithered down my thigh. 

Seeds soaked in butter,

smiling masochist seeds. 

A parade of green,

a dance of red,

a flip of yellow,

orange cartwheels. 

Bears bouncing and giggling,

a corruption of laughter,

wine stained lips

I could have done the same with beets. 

Onion after onion

peeling out my eyes, 

evaporating the carrots,

all rims left behind.  

And a lonely chocolate coconut kiss

spitting up strawberry wine.

Nonetheless, we made it to the week of carrots.  Carrots have an elegant scream, not to the untrained tongue, but if you pay close attention, beneath their orange rage and lightly tinted rims, there exists a subtle sweetness to calm any sugar-rushing nerve.  But you still added pepper.  And I kept quiet.  Which allowed us to achieve a week of tomatoes and bread, wheat bread with sesame seeds and sunflower seeds and some other seed and oh!  How I loved them.  You coated them with butter, but I kept quiet, nibbling seed after seed after seed, coating my eyes with the tomatoes I diced so well for me only me.

Mornings: eggs.  The word is enough to disgust me, the yolk pure slime.  So you boiled them, plopped out the middle, and I smiled, though still hiding my purple teeth.   

Thank you for the week of nuts in which I fell oh so close to love.  My tongue picked up chipped almonds from your cheek as hazelnuts grazed my arms and pistachios kneaded into my back.  But you kneaded too hard, leaving a trail of black and blue upon my every freckle. 

One night I surprised you with my navel: a chocolate coconut kiss.  You rolled over and grabbed bears, gummy bears, biting off heads off arms off paws of gelatin blue and green and red and orange and yes!  Colors are pretty.  But not those.  

Then onions.  White onions.  Thin raw rings staring at me.  From a bowl.  On the table.  And you actually ate them.  Had I known you were miserable I would have rolled carrots in pepper soaked my seeds in your butter or given you a bite tomato.  You only needed to ask.   

But you mashed that mash of onions ballooned my nostrils stung my brain, cracked egg upon egg upon my pale olive thighs, the yolk slivering down in a disgustingly perfect line.  The bears bounced and giggled, a corruption of laughter you cried black I cried white with wine-stained teeth I could have done the same with beets.  Glop so yellow drowning smiling masochist seeds, pistachios marching, carrots crushing, a rivalry complete, with my chocolate coconut navel spitting up strawberry wine.  

Of you crawling into my mind switching me on and off, subtly staring leading me to believe you’re mysterious you’re thinking you’re possibly deep.  But you’re the same as the whistle, the same as the wink: a split-second intrigue that you turn into a question into a number into a smile into an illusion my illusion that my smile will last more than a split-second. 

And I let myself fall. 

Atop bumps pavement bumps making holes little holes that only dent the idea of coffee in bed and a damp sheet ridden between my legs.  A two time smile a one time grin a tongue-less kiss and away I’d go.  But the collection of dents and a smirk too many smirks leave yellow-stained teeth rotting inside. 

And I try to chew. 

With the insides of my cheeks and the buds on my tongue, you creep down like tar. Sticking, stuck, to my throat, piling upon yourself.  I want to gorge you, I want to peel you, I want to twist you I want you out.  But I swallow.  Continue to swallow.  No notion of neck no notion of throat only notion of barking of scratching of crumbling upon, a black tar pit, personalized.   

A red pulp rained.  Blood orange, you whispered.  Blood orange I smiled.  The pulses of our thumbs combined and I forgot which heart was beating.  Blood oranges hadn’t graced me in years too many years.  Your salty fingers disrupted the sweet acidity, but my tongue still lingered behind.   

Breakfast.  Eggs.  (The word is enough to disgust me, the yolk pure slime.)  And then you mashed a mash of onions ballooned my nostrils stung my brain.  So I hid the onions pulled your hands with my eyes licorice eyes and kissed you two more times.   

You gazed.  I thought.  If I could paint you, I wouldn’t.  Your eyebrows cried black.  Little caterpillars that flickered every time you laughed.  If your lips had been made of mango, I would have eaten them.  Strawberries I liked too (but the seeds ingrained themselves in my teeth and when I smiled it was ugly).  Mangos are more discreet. 

The next week, we ate boiled carrots.  One day you brought pepper, little flickers everywhere.  So the next next week, we ate boiled carrots with pepper.  A touch of insult to the carrot but I kept quiet.  Mayonnaise?  Never.  At that moment I almost loved you.  For dessert: cherry pits and cherry stained your lips stained my lips and my thighs and everything in between.  (But it still wasn’t mango.) 

We then had a phase of tomato and bread, wheat bread with sesame seeds and sunflower seeds and some other seed and oh!  How I loved them.  You drowned them in butter but I kept quiet.  (Nibbling on my own seeds itsy bitsy sharks nibbled my fingertips.  Those caterpillar eyebrows were starting to sink in, slightly crushing your brain.)  But the tomato diced well.   

The week of chocolate I fell very close to love.  Dark and milk of course never white under the pillow one truffle two truffles three truffles, nuts!  On the bottom of your lip was the tip of my tongue, a chipped almond on your cheek, pistachios you caressed up to my shoulder, down to our palms (and kneaded into my skin piercing my every freckle leaving trails of blue.)  Shells lined the floor the decor of my future wedding aisle.    

And my navel: a chocolate coconut kiss.  (Not the navel of the kumquat that you licked before me and followed with coffee.  That was bitter.)  I was utterly sweet.   

Yet you bought gummy bears.  Biting off heads off arms off paws of gelatin of red and blue and green and orange and yes, colors are pretty.  But not those.  Carrots have an elegant scream.  Not to the untrained tongue…but if you pay attention, beneath the orange rage and the lightly tinted rims, they have the ability to calm your sugar rushing nerve.  But you didn’t believe me and stuck to the bears.     

Fine. 

But then onions.  White onions.  Thin raw rings staring at me.  From a bowl.  On the table.  Next to the carrots.  And you actually ate them.  Had I known you were miserable I would have added ketchup mustard five tins of pepper.  You only needed to ask.   

You mashed a mash of onions ballooned my nostrils stung my brain, burnt my nerves, egg yolk now slithered down my thigh.  Taffy soaked in butter, smiling masochist seeds.  A parade of green, a dance of red, a flip of yellow, orange cartwheels.  Bears bouncing and giggling, a corruption of laughter, you crying black me crying nothing wine stained lips I could have done the same with beets.  Onion after onion peeling out my eyes, evaporating the carrots, all rims left behind.  And a lonely chocolate coconut navel spitting up strawberry wine.