the wish; the handgun

Sometime back around March, for extra credit as part of my Asian American history class, I went to the Wing Luke Asian American Museum in I District. There was a little station where you could write down a prayer, fold it up, and tie it to a long chain of other wishes. I wasn't able to tie mine properly so I kept it and forgot about it. It's been pinned to my bulletin board since, unactualized. Undelivered.

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wish inside a handgun

Pointed away from her head
A paper wish inside a handgun
Folded up tiny
Don't worry boy her heart won't scream
Don't worry boy all she thinks is you got bored

And this wish lives
Hanging
Suspended
From nails in her neck
He rests his wish feet on
Her abdomen
He says, Please,
Woman, deliver me

While she was stroking you,
Boy, Don't worry boy her heart doesn't scream,
She was thinking about how
Lovely and gorey
It would be when you
Tore eachother apart

She didnt say I Love You,
Did she? She said "please and thankyou"
Like a good girl
But she stiffened,
Tongue still,
To hold in her revolting mind
But don't worry boy her heart doesn't scream

And she knows muscles ache
The more you use them
Because they are decaying
And being rebuilt
Stronger

She thinks every time
She makes your heart strain
She is making you strong enough
To handle her
Even though
When you do the same,
All it feels is like
Those heart fibers are
Becoming
A cage

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beast

Heart frenzied,
Meteor, and a wish
Appropriately

And an ache, low, low, dull
Ache where you tore at me

You're lycanthropic,
Different at night,
Darker,
And animal,

But not baring
Teeth

I wonder if I shall tame you,
Caged inside a studio apartment,
Or keep you wild,
But keep you distant,
Also

Beast,
I will cower, prostrate, before you
In your dark castle
Hallways
Always
If you just stay a beast

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City scapes, sky line, and the whole goddamned sea but I wasnt paying attention to any of it

Touch: a contagion

Spread through me like a

sickness

And on one hand you were drunk when you said it

                On the other hand, that doesn’t mean

                It is more a truth

                Or more a           

                Lie

               

I worry that you’ll never write a song about me,

that I might bleed ink

About the way you taste

lying

that I could track you

down by your scent.

Drunkenness, an excuse to be all over you

And maybe I just want to tell you all about

Molestation, metathought, evolution of culture

most especially about

Oxytocin,

the word I trace

into your skin

with my fingertips