Trouble

Trouble. Trouble is what he calls me

While his arms wrap tightly around my waist

  as we lay on the stiff leathered back seat

Trouble is what he calls me

While the harsh winds outside howl

   trying to grab onto our attention

The grass crunches down angrily

  as we ignore its fleeting calls

I call him trouble, and we stay there together

His scarred hands running over the fabric

  so inconveniently placed over my smooth skin

And my own two hands tracing his

   lips as he speaks to me about 

   realism, idealism, racism, sexism, classism

   and all the other ism’s there are in this world

So we can co-nect the dark tunnels

   that lead through the cerebral

Tunnels coated with idea’s 

   individual, media, parental, peer, 

  invalid idea’s

Insecurities littering the cold hard ground

   making it hard to move through

   they stain those tunnels

And he speaks, speaks, speaks

  those stains away 

   it makes me happy

But why is it some days when I think about his

   mouth moving tongue lapping over words

   encrusted in accents that I have yet to call my own

If this makes me happy. Why is it I cringe?

Is it because the sweet taste of 

  the forbidden fruit still poisons you in the end?

Still rips apart your intestines leaving only

   shreds of aching raw flesh behind

   as you groan alone and no one cares

   enough to hear you because its you 

   own damn fault.

And he’s too old and I’m too young 

  and he gets it but I don’t 

  when I understand he doesn’t

But we, 

   are lapping waves gently washing a

   lost body to land caring with
   just enough twisted darkness to do so

I am trouble,

   and he is trouble.

But we are just here, and our eager perceptions of reality cloud their judgments. 

-Liliana Eloida Jimenez