Who are the men I trust? Who are the men I trust.
Should I be a flat-earther? For the circles that compass over themselves, to dodge them as they knock me on their turn around? For the spin that dizzies me afreshed into a sweeter doomsday, as the earth spins and spins, to allow it to fling me against the walls of this suffocating universe. There is no eschaton that I can sense in my tingling red fingers, in my gilded gliding sunset skirt that even motions its dally around a circumference dancing to the beat of a circularly rhythmic heart. Where are you doomsday, end of days, where are you, my Reckoning? Postured under this skirt, between my legs? Even there, life is circular. Does it end, does it ever? And if the clock relearns a linear step, can I still stay here, learn to be divine outside of the tease of coming alive, wet and boned, to grow upwards only to spin.
Flat earth, my grid, I should be groped by you. Romantic sense, I suppose, to feel about uncertainly or search without the guidance of sight. If your grassy flush could succumb my skin and ravish it, bruise it on the blood side, make it gush, then oh Reckoning let nature be as nature is. I'd gladly give my superstitious honour to the grieving and lovesong Earth. Because my scorch could burn it back, then I'd burn this whole place down. Out of sacrifice and love. My fleshy and brown sacrifice and love.
That is what the men I don't trust don't understand - a loving honey heart and my suckle skin. That it comes in a pristine package in wrapping paper that is scream and sniff, sometimes cry and sniff, if he's lucky. I don't trust my father. He doesn't see god in me, I am not his creature, I am not his divine. He says to me when my petals are bruising, your pain is disrespectful to me. I am a raunchy, breast-faced weed who sets paper alight by the gas tank just to see what I can make pucker, what soil I can make vibrate in the wind, under my eye. If in that Exxon I can set a sun ablaze, with the power he gives me, I will and I will laugh. To him, I am a sad, sad, unfortunate broken porcelain doll. He says, young woman, young baby, little one. You are just a child. You are just a nothing. He talks about my sex and my body, makes me grotesque. Perhaps I am. But it is my fashion - my grotesqueness, my animalism, Proud Father, it is why I am loved, why I am lusted, why I am nothing like the yes sir yes-woman, that boney faced succumbent coward, why the world sits in my broken and rusty little fingers. My father, I don't trust him. Because he calls what my skirt hides "the goods", as if its cross-stitches circle around my pinching waist to ask someone to ride themselves underneath it. How, swallowing nature, swallowing green goddess, do I trust a man who forces me into his circle, cry o'clock, laugh o'clock, then I pop a finger up between that smelly fishy sex of mine to remind myself that I am still alive. I don't trust men who stare at themselves without a third eye and pinch their stomachs in the mirror to check if their anger feels good settled in there. I don't trust men, and I shed a tear for their loss.
The men that see god in me, they're blinded. Suck me off honeysuckle skin, while the Reckoning feels the jealousy rise under his spirit shadow. I don't trust my boyfriend, not with every single piece of myself. Not the pyromaniac, not the creator, not the angry. The cycle of loving is the cycle of questioning. Time, the bastard, cuckolding me with a future that may or may not be. I don't trust him to love me like I trust nature to swallow me. I don't trust his smile when he says he will blanket me in his florets from the dirty, filthy, malt barley-soaked world that he was raised in, the one that hates me from the inside out. The one that destroys and picks apart the essences of human expression, the volatility unfairly characterized to human reproduction, that christens rebirth into an arsenic cherry pit of a spit-bound world. His words make me disappear into nothingness, not because they mean nothing, but because I can't believe them when they make me cry. When I have vomited into the well and poisoned the water and felt minimal regret. When I wonder if I am worthy of love. I don't trust him to love me, but I am hydrated knowing that he does. Fishy sex and perky-fluorescent eyes stenched with honeymoon oil, I don't trust myself enough to protect the man I don't trust either. I don't trust our survival in our circle of kissing until we forget we exist, jolted out by who gave us blood, and crawling out of our skin to re-identify with the other. I don't trust men who have seen me naked but who have never seen me angry dance.
The men I do trust make up the same nature that I let swallow me, scorching, that I smile at. My trees, they give me oxygen and raise my spirit to the wheel of karma, tickle my dharma and make it laugh outside of the tainting humanity. Un-cast their own shadows. My three men. I don't have to remind myself I am alive when they cry. They use my distrust and cataract it pink and rosy. Dizzied by the turning, I fall into their cold and kind soil, fantastically soiled and rolling like a pig in the mud, squealing their melting heart beats into my unending pulse. The karma, the succor, the toothache as we scream into the sky together, leveling the ground, for just a moment. The roundedness of the solid earth is nothing but a launch pad for our own determination of lovesong outside of grief. Their leaves steeped in my goddess body, I can't remember what it feels like to distrust. I feel we are saints, clouds, I feel they see the god in me - they are.
