BATHROOM CONFESSIONAL

my eyes   wider      than         when I fell asleep   I dreamt    I was beautiful 

no cloth skin to iron with fingertips or gums to suck in or pressing my tongue

to the roof my mouth     on tuesday       I am told I am a deity     on friday   I see myself and the cold tiles beckon to be kissed        I say no      I practice this

 I remember saying       yes     all too well    numbing knees      purple 

retching for forgiveness  and this      is my bathroom confessional              

  some days          I am the priest         others         I am the sinner 

 I wake up          bloodied at the bowl         memory muscle walks me there

this habitual hell claws at my neck ; sometimes I like the warmth of its hand

I am hurting    so I latch onto desire    she fills me      but I am still hungry

after she has gone        I am     empty    and     whole       I clasp onto control

and I am his most faithful marionette

I feel most beautiful     in the hands of him     pressing into me 

the furnace of flesh warms me      and I forget how it feels to be cold 

I ask him to leave       before I fall in love      by dawn      I still smell him on me 

I do not shower      instead       I write about his musk     & bathe in the memory 

the marriage of bodies                   the melding of beings     

the dance of desire        the fantasy that frees me        I simply surrender

in the haze         I wake       to find         I am still hungry    

yearning       for              more         or less        (I haven’t decided yet)  

Preface

When sharing this poem with a friend, I told her this is the most honest poem I have written in years. When writing this, I recalled a time in my life that was quite unpleasant to revisit, and yet in doing so, I felt liberated by the memory. I spent a year or so not writing anything, a year where life was just consumed with grief and illness and disorder. I am not the same girl I was during that time. I am, however, still in possession of that desire for control. It metamorphoses through time, presents itself in many different ways, and I am always surprised. My need for control manifests differently these days, far more healthily, and so I felt a need to share that themes in poetry do not always mirror the writer’s current experience, and that often, it is through writing that one can process the past (even if it is years and years later).