Pillow Talk (Marshall Gillson)

I’ve never been one to trade snakes that smother for those that speak.
That’s why I always giggle after sex. I know. It’s stupid.
I guess that calls for a little more explanation.

I spend a lot of time lost in my own head.
I till every garden bed in my life with analysis, and it works. 
I have what I need.

I’m not the most profound person.
I’m misanthropic. I’m cynical. I probably drink too much.
The world seems like a snowglobe packed too tightly.

But I think that I’m achieving some sort of understanding, if slowly.
Twice a week I subject an audience to my scatterbrained thoughts.
So I stay sane, overall.

But my thoughts are boas. They’re unforgiving. 
They don’t know how to apologize or even tempt me aloud.
All they can do is squeeze until truth is loosed.

It’s like constantly sparring with myself,
beating my head against a concrete wall.
I’m tense and anxious and still trying to learn to cope.

And in the midst of all this, we fucked. It’s strange.
My dick is like my hand, just a probe to touch another person
from whom I am fundamentally disconnected.

But when we do this, it’s like wresting the snakes from my torso.
For one panting moment, I am animal.
It’s always startling to be tossed headlong back to the snakes.

It’s stupid. I know. I’ll shut up.