“I am going to write a poem today”

*Warning weird and the first poem in months. Literary criticism invited*

I am going to write a poem today,
lit by the flickering memory of your gestures,
hunched and buckled, hard-bellied
with tweezers in-hand, oddly akin to
the staunchly stubborn postures we both have taken,
molded our bodies over barbed-wire
that we may escape comparison
to the soft tenderness of a raw sore.
I am going to write a poem today,
Because I feel like punching bruises,
Peeling up the encrusted corners of scabs, and
Plucking each word like an unwanted body hair,
snatching it painfully from the taunt layers,
buried underneath who I’ve learned to be
amidst expectations that guild the silence
in unmistakable shades of anticipation and wax burn.
I am going to write a poem today,
Even though I let us pace ourselves in circles,
Tangential, smooth, going nowhere
while we will poke at spaces in-between
the bent and contorted, turning inwards, spines
that have formed pustules not-quite beneath the surface
and pretend that we don’t have ingrown hairs.