Inside you is a darkness that goes on forever. Do not be afraid. That is God, telling you he is watching. That dark was what you crawled out from, then back into. That dark birthed your mother, who will one day birth you. There are claw marks inside every womb for a thousand miles, because whom amongst us ever wanted to leave God?


When I encounter you in that dark, my tongue will be its own translator. Your hands, every syllable I could never pronounce. I will speak, if only to disregard the silence between our bodies. Because your hands are every form of Hell I have never encountered: every season through which I refused to pass, in the light.






No, I donŐt love you. Not anymore. And donŐt bring up how I was, how we both were, in a winter far removed.


Damnit, I do. I love you. And the way you listened for an entire month, refusing to settle the phone. Settling into me, like thunder, before the crash. Why did I always know thereŐd be a crash?


Fucking Pessimist. Fucking Asshole. Fucking Devil, at your window, with two hands instead of eyes. Fucking Asshole, who canŐt touch you, even in this poem, even when I have control. I heard a myth once about a boy who never stopped suffering after he robbed a woman of her breath. How he never breathed properly again.


Fuck you. Fuck this room I put you in. Fuck your lips, red against the changing snow. Fuck how I never apologized. Fuck how I still love you.



Fuck this poem. And how even within it, I still will never own up to loving you.






Love you.


It is unmistakable, the things I have done.


Kiddnaping you in a car, falling through ditches.


Your lips, two small explosions as they bite through mine.


We donŐt stop, even when I start bleeding. We donŐt stop, even when it has been two years


Since I touched your face.


Our bodies, bound to a backseat in a snowstorm.


Our tongues, the only organ that warms us both.


© Ian Powell-Palm


Bio: Ian Powell-Palm is a writer, poet, and musician currently living in Belgrade, Montana. His work attempts to interrogate familial trauma, sexual identity, and the resurrection of the dead. You can read more of his poetry on Facebook at 'Powell-Palm Poetry'.