"brain games" & "december" by Samantha Rowling

brain games

With a tiny little hammer

And a tiny little chisel

I am going to straddle you

(The way you like)

And crack open your skull

And scoop it out like pumpkin seeds

So I can see what you think of me -

(That’s not how brains work, you said

I don’t care!!!!! I said

[I get it, you’re a fucking scientist])

I’m going to plop it into a tureen

And pull it apart with my hands

And take all the fibers

(Or whatever’s in there

I don’t actually know how brains work)

And I’m going to be like those guys on tv

You know, on the cop shows

I’m going to stretch them out like red string

And tack them to a cork board

To see if you’re lying about -

(Why would I lie, you said

You’re already in bed with me, you said

I don’t care!!!! I said)

Liking me

(and listen; if you’re lying about liking me, it’s fine

we can still hook up, you know me

but if you didn’t watch the videos i sent

there will be hell to pay)

december

My fingers are greedy,

trying to track these loose threads

to plait them into something I can touch:

A tongue inside me, my knees pressed into sheets

like a baker presses his hands into dough,

my forehead touching the wall with every rock.

I thought you would fall between the twin beds

housekeeping thrust together for us.

I do this every winter: relitigating every memory,

December wind like a whetstone used

to sharpen the dulled edges.

Things are different this year:

I have been running.

I hated running before.

I think if I can train my muscles,

and pull them into something taut and new,

maybe I can do the same with the rough red stretch of my mind.

Maybe with each footfall, I am discarding the soul

hewn from others’ landscapes.

“You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever been with,” you said.

“I hope you’re not lying,” I said.

“Why would I lie?” you said.

My heart was a door swung open.

I want to believe that this exists in a vacuum,

that the world comes to a sharp halt outside this door.

Maybe this is an elaborate game of dress-up.

I want to know what shampoo you use, what you ate last

You can’t look at mirrors; I put away my mirrors.

So this is what I am trying to outrun,

the folding of the small details of you

into my skin.

Samantha is from Chicago, Illinois. Basically she is writing so she doesn't die. Find her at @saaamrowling on Twitter.