she told me about the kind of love to make your head spin;
the kind that wraps itself around every one of your fingers
like the hug from a child's tiny hands;
the kind that pushes itself into your cornea and swells
your pupils so that it's always too bright outside;
the kind that hits you like a shot--straight to the blood--straight
to your thoughts--making the balcony seem like an easy jump.
she told me about the kind of sex to make your head spin;
the kind that pushes your teeth back and stifles your screams
with the knowledge that mom is right outside;
the kind that markets itself as a night-long fuck with a fuck-star
when you end up making love like you are;
the kind that makes your lips bleed the next morning and tastes
like you've spent your adolescence kissing in cop-cars lying about lying at all.
she told me about the kind of death to make your head spin;
the kind that gives you one more second of realizing you can't
pull back your finish line any longer;
the kind which pushes your eyes closed with it's cool tongue and
forges a riot through the breaks in your lungs;
the kind which leaves a note on your bedside table, in the shower, written
about an hour before you decided to do it at all, so you're toted off
with your bottle in your pocket, with your noose/knife/gun to take the
life off your hands, which had gotten so heavy, which had run by
so heavy, so fast, and linked itself with your name so that you felt
like you couldn't be free.
she began about the kind of morning to make your head spin;
but she dropped her amber ale and it spilled all over her silk dress before
she could tell me and she
disappeared into the bathroom and by the time she came back, I had left
for my cigarette in the rain.
