A thread of insincerity floats to the ground,
A soft blue sparkling thirty inches of mohair,
A cat toy or a half a fringe or something else,
Stretched from door jamb to door jamb,
Iron tacks holding it taunt – and I trip.
Getting my ankles tangled up in starlight and night,
My knees stained blue and silver from kneeling at your boots,
Palms flat on the rug,
I look up to see you rise,
Your body scrolling up from that length of lies,
Tendons and bones slipping through each filament,
Weaving together to form a wisp of a ghost,
Plaiting to create a you that I hardly recognize.
I trip and I fall again and again and again,
How many times can I bruise my knees on you,
Stuffing a skein of blue mohair into my mouth,
Your disingenuousness is a handful of prickly threads,
Drool dribbling down the sides of my lips,
Knocking my head against your phantom boot.
There is something about this that I love,
Is it the abject position or the secrets?
A pushing into some dangerous country of the heart?
I am comforted by how we excavate our thoughts,
Each sentence containing gullies of truth and deceit,
Feeling used as I lay on the harsh wool,
Exhausted and my cheeks tear-stained,
It is like I came 10,000 times,
But it wasn’t until you slapped me that I was done.

About Avery Cassell

Avery Cassell is a queer butch San Francisco writer, poet, cartoonist, and artist who grew up in Iran.
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