I like you pressed like this, compressed, oppressed –
(I know you protest the word, but we know her, love)
You don’t become geometric, refined(able); for all your sting there is no chance of slicing a finger with a playful stroke. Instead, you seem to grow more non-corporeal.
(Your dream, I know. That’s why you enjoy it. The feeling that your words will phase through their targets and your fists through the tops of your own thighs. Keep up the violence.)
But you imagine you can finally be seen.
A torrent. Two eyes fixated ahead to direct a deluge of hopes and dreams. Call them what you will; they will always be sweet, tender little things to me. You don’t want to be weak anymore. You don’t want to be afraid.
You want to kiss my foul words away.