i don't talk about sex.
i cringe when others do.
i am bad at that kind of thing...
it has to be forced from my psyche,
wrenched out of my fist,
pried from my catholic upbringing...

so.

this was written
the night we met...
please,
don't judge me.

july 17/94

furious with wanting you
to possess you
encompass you
grinding my teeth
nails clenched in my hand
your sweat stinging my eyes
salt on salt
i beg to understand
the anger
the bitterness
i taste smoke on your fingers
smell the scent of it
on my own hand
tidal wave anger
breaks me down
again

(the anger has nothing to do with the person
in the poem other than to say he was
indirectly in the path of it, but never the
cause of it)

more poetry thursday here