In Chrysalis

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There is a misconception that the love of a man is hard, reminiscent of a stone statue. They are harden, unmoving, craggy and as such brittle. 

I, a man know of course this is not universal, but still the image of a woman brings the rains which carve the mountain. Brings breeze on a humid day, disarms a tense room with an easy laugh. Of course this is a fallacy. Somehow I reimagine how soft their skin must feel on each other, how their perfumes collide in the air. How their dresses wash back and forth like waves on a calm shore while playing tag. The softness of their palms clapping together, the chimes of their voices singing “look who’s here ponchinella ponchinella” or some other game song. The necklaces tangling together and the hair intertwining. Of course I know this is a fallacy. That probably only a man could romanticize the life of a woman, could envy the touch of a feminine entity. This is but a dream. It could only be a dream to have hair that reaches past my waist, that my sisters would braid from behind and our friends behind them. Only could be a dream that I would have fuller lips and a forgiving frame. Imagine dreaming that my skin could shed roses as I step, everything I touch melts with ease. Imagine dreaming to be heat, to boil and burn. Imagine dreaming to ignite desire as I dance. Imagine having a vision of yourself with a smile wider than your face can stretch. Imagine that you are water when you walk. Imagine lifting your arms like thermals to the sky, gold cocooning every extremity. 

I don't touch women. I don't touch any women besides my mother. 

I’m resigned to the cold and stone and tension. I fall in love with statues day by day. As we grind ourselves together like plates we do not ebb, we fragment each other. It starts at the joints. The fingers crumble away, the elbows fracture, the ankles crack, the knees buckle. After the frame has weakened the rains come. All the piles of dust we have poured together simply wash away. Where the stones meet erodes further and further, she steals him away. Where the pressure has cracked the casing she fills with fluid. With milk, with cum, with perfume, with foundation, with blood. She fills him with the promise of embryonic fluid and like limestone in water she eats him away. Like clay on a mountain she sweeps him up in her infinite softness and molds him into mud. And I am left to rust in the elements. I don’t touch women. But I have a dream that my skin would be soft like guava, and my hair the ferns that wave on tree branches in the wind.