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HUBBA HUBBA.​

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The thing about love is, If I don’t watch my step I’ll for sure fall in it, trip over it, die for it.

This dumb fumbling heart bleeds out at least twice a month.

Hubba Hubba thump thump 

The burn starts almost instantly and in a matter of daze my bones, my loins, my fairy tale daydream stick a fork in me I’m done for delusion ignites and I’ll be slave for whatever you master.  

I am the perfect disaster. 

But likely not the type of tornado you’ve seen on the news. Moreso the type that enters your life and suddenly you’re somewhere over the rainbow in a land that looks a lot like OZ. 

And before you know which witch is which, I’ll distract that scarecrow brain with my wits and a tit. 

But First I’ll want to do your dishes – to pick off the crusty flaky bits from the concave in your spoons with my thumb or fuck it my tongue because at this point, I’d do anything to taste you. 

Then it’s maybe your laundry if you like with two scoops of extra softener for the shirts that have the logo near your hardened heart - I’ll fold your pants too because I’m eager to be in them and I’ll sift my hands through your pockets pretending change is the only thing I’m looking for.

I’ll be a whore for your chores.  

I’ll wanna go down – to your basement and organize the dusty boxes where you keep your unfinished journals with the reminisce of your unfinished love affairs. 

The ones that paved the piss yellow brick road for me.

Then once you trust me with your daily duties I’ll move onto the daily DO MEs

I won’t be shy or polite about asking to intertwine our limbs in a dirty little game called where you end and I begin. I don’t just do yoga for the exercise. 

We can practice our geometry and you can use your protractor to draw me in any shape you like. A triangle, a trapezoid, a rhombus. Math can be fun hey. And rhombus is a sexy word to say.  And while we’re at it I’ll calculate all the ways you can break me and I’ll perfect the algorithm that will lead to our demise. 

But not before a couple hundred more times. 

We’ll have a series of little jokes and watch a series of silly shows. We’ll bond over characters we’ll pretend to know. I’ll cook for you and we’ll play house for a while. Maybe I’ll even meet your mom – or at least get her to say “Who’s that” when mY voice fills the background of your weekly phone calls. 

I’ll wonder how you’ll respond and think it’s cute you call your mom. I’ll stay a bit longer…

But then one day when you’re feeling safe I’ll stare down the barrels of your bullet hole eyes wondering who shot you and why you never took the time to bandage up the wounds. Not that I’m anyone to judge. If the only relief from grief was stitches and a body cast, I’d never leave the hospital. 

But I’ll penalize you for it anyway and like a magician on a mission I'll plot my final act, Tying a straightjacket around my heart so your access becomes worthless without the key. 

My phone died, the internet's weak, the cow jumped over the moon.

It doesn’t matter because it will all be over soon. 

My big finale is that I’ll resent you. Start to blame you for the dark parts of me you brought to light

until it becomes so unbearable that I’ll want to inject your same dish soap into my veins if it means scrubbing me clean of every molecule that recognizes you. 

I’ll singe off the prints from the tips of my fingers

if it disguises the person that used to enjoy sharing your breath.

I’m not well…

Two shots of cyanide for the memories.

A puff of methane for the jokes. 

But before I go and off myself over the emotions you brew…

This bleeding heart goes thump thump again

Hubba Hubba

Who are you?