What to Do When the Gloves Come Off

I am tired of waiting –
tired of saying please
only to hear no,
a hurricane of excuses
wearing circumstances like masks,
wearing fear like too much lipstick,
wearing the ghost of someone else’s
mistakes –
his are not yours,
you are not him,
and this is not the same history.

I am tired of polite, tired
of clean, crisp, barely
staying on the road, leaving
heartbeats like breadcrumbs
hoping –
oh, fuck it.

I want to be free, flawed, dirty
and wild and selfish –
I am tired
of playing nice
and sitting still, legs
crossed at the knees or ankles –
that is a lie,
that is an image,
that is grey
instead of red,
spark
instead of fire,
a closed-mouth kiss
instead of tongue –

enough. Enough, now.
No more rules and regulations,
no more softly asked questions,
no more circling like hawks,
like wolves, wanting.

My mouth holds your name,
my hips hold your heart –
this is a confession
you once recanted:
come, take your name back;
come, steal your love back;
come.

You are everything I want
need
love – a name
I almost never say aloud.

This is challenge.
This is a promise.
This is my miracle,
a willing sacrifice
of strength, fragility
in a smile; vulnerability
in a laugh:
say yes.
say now.

Because I am tired of waiting.