bleeding purple iris inside

i write letters to everyone in my mind, hundreds, open and closed, maybe sealed and definitely undelivered. undeliverable. some to myself, some by myself, or lonely. or lonesome. la diferencia entre solo y solitario. i’m following a direction i never expected: a direction that focuses on my homes-familymomdadbrothersister(andtheirmother, too) places i know, intersections i’ve driven.

mom, i don’t want to throw you away like everyone else has.

j & g, i don’t want to you wonder where i was throughout your lives. i had enough missing people in mine. i want to be there watching and helping you grow.

dad, i want to be your friend.

leslie, i want to figure you out.

and what do i want of myself? don’t want to hurt you. don’t want to push too hard, move too fast. don’t want to stop you from getting close, but don’t want to be stifled. want to feel that new confidence. want to sway my hips, lick my lips. want to erase the tears in your eyes and the hurt in your stomach. want to understand balance. want to step back from love and evaluate it: how many chances do you get? want to celebrate the mind-body connection by respecting both sides of it. want to write a song or plant a seed and watch it grow: want to create. want to see myself grow old and not bitter. want gray hair, want truth in my fiction, want a straight back and long shapely legs. want a purple iris between us the next time you make love to me, as i wonder at what you make me feel. want to hurry or stand still. want to know older men and busty women (in the biblical sense). want to wonder more and tie myself down less. want to embrace and not follow through. want to bloom like the iris i’m holding now that makes you more real in the darkness. want my purple to bleed everywhere, purple and incoherent but beautiful. want purple shirtshoeskinandteethand

that’s not all.
it’s more complicated than i expected.