World of Siobhan Kathleen Bledsoe

Odorless Coconut Oil
(for bean, april 12, 2017)

I can be too sappy, but often one of us needs to be two.

When you fail to communicate a vulnerability (grievance or compliment), I make a joke about telepathy not being my strong suit but then I find the answer lodged in your large browns curtained with lashes I envy.

You say only what you mean, the tongue of word economy, no room for the superfluous, no time for anything but. You'd never do this right here. Remember when I tried to appease my mother and you told me not to tell even a white lie?

Lies come in many forms; from me to you: puckering your lips around the head of a bong doesn’t bother me because it is most efficient, your wrestling obsession is not an obsession at all; it is artful. That your all black uniform is monotonous, when I wish I could wear it but fear to be a copycat. Instead, I steal the shirts I bought for you.

Lies comes in many forms; from you to me: that you call us “mismatched” but mean it as a compliment, that I’m the yin to your yang, that you’re a natural born introvert and (maybe) aren’t depressed, that you’ve (maybe) never been depressed, that stress doesn't saddle you, that you leave work behind once you open the studio doors and fling free onto Canal St, headed home.

Lies come in many forms; from me to you: that I only know you love me when your mouth is clipped onto my nipple, that I’m not self-righteous, I have conviction (and much of it), that your seeming lack of ambition is a noble rebellion against late capitalism, that your frequent use of abbrevs are cute and don't annoy the hell out of me.

Lies come in many forms; from you to me: that you don’t mind I’m a vegetarian even though you often suggest Chinatown and soup dumplings, that my run-on texts don’t bother you but are endearing, that my frequent ramblings aren’t self-involved but animated, that you pride yourself on self-reliance but respond, eagerly, to doting. This poem is beautiful; you don't find it repugnant.

You ordered coconut oil that has no aroma because when the smell sticks to you it is unappealing, unappetizing, even gross.

I judged you. It should smell.

I judged you. Who gouges the heart from the robust body of that elixir?

I judge you.
I judge me, so of course
I judge others.
Judge then deny I judge.
You remind me about the danger of assumption.
The smartest, usually, but the most humble, always.

Your favorite weapon is built from blades of practicality and you carry it around like pepper spray, wielding it only when my iCloud isn’t turned on, when my operating system isn’t updated, when I don’t use Amazon Prime, when I trek to TJMaxx in the city instead of ordering sheets and pillows online.

Order the right pillow, goddammit, you think. No words, just that sigh.

You fix everything but your own neuroses, and we stay silent about that, about those.

Fate you resign to gracefully; you won’t use Castor Oil to halt your hair from falling out, to put the brakes on balding. Studies show Castor Oil has no proven benefits for hair growth, sage does nothing to energy, astrology is bullshit, crystals only act to sit on shelves looking pretty and nothing else.

I tell you you’re not poetic, but I lie. It is my biggest lie; it flipped my stubbornness on its head, it knocked me off of my sure stool. How unfair you’ve never had credit card debt, cracked a phone, or lost keys but you’re still poetic. You’re fucking rational, but you’re sensual. How unfair.

How unfair you can kiss like that.
There is no way you should kiss like that.
I convince myself that calling me an UberPOOL is miserly, but

your gestures are small and generous, highlighted by consistency; here, my love, take, then lose, another pair of my socks you never seem to be wearing. Okay, my darling, I’ll talk to you even when you too often call mumbling and turnt. Here, sweets, my cigarettes are relentlessly yours,

Here sprout, I’ll rent a car, drive to Boston to gather your things, and stay silent when you return with just a half-empty suitcase.

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