I tell you what i'd like you to know
sometimes i don't tell you what id like you to know
but just to ensure that you know it,
ill curl my lip
ill round my shoulders
ill jerk my hips
but you'll know what i want you to know
amidst the smoke on the dance floor,
blaring though the PA
ill make sure my intent is portrayed
by the way i sip my rum
you'll know what i want you to know
but what of the rest of me
the world i cannot describe
what of the world that is not even mine
for that i cannot claim to know
the location of its key
what of the smile that only the mirror sees
the me that changes night by night
in flighty dreams
the person of the interior
that has privilege to swear
and behave like an oaf
what of that person
may he not swill in a trough behind closed doors
may he not fuck in the quiet of the barn
ill not tell you of much of me
maybe most on somedays
the days when i am most interior
when i am most the smoke of my cigarette
whispering into the night
into the morning and then the afternoon
and day again
the days when my shadow is more myself
than my lips
may i not have my days in the shade?
must i relinquish the innards of my eyelids?
must you see the pinky flesh next my bones?
is it not enough to know that it is the same colour as yours?
that i am made of the same truths and the same lies?
that my bones are ground by the same fallacies?
must you gather my footsteps
to the extent that i can no longer bear to tread?
when in truth my innards are something only i can touch
when in truth my innards will always cause me more confusion
than anything else in this life
when in truth if truth can be squeezed from my soul
it will reveal life to me and only me
have my lips
my hands wrapped around you
In truth my innards are not under lock and key
but they can truly only be seen by me.