bad behaviour

I speak of the way
I have influenced others.

Sometimes it is
to attribute their body hitting
against other bodies and
Japanese mats.
I told her she needed a practice.

I speak of
secret knowledge of
past lovers – not of
their bottoms, their tonsils,
their tinea-toes but
of the ways I saw through them.

You say that you
never want me to
be able to say such things
about you. You say
you want me to have no
influence over you.

The secrets I wield
were a poor defence against
my love. I have
stumbled in circles
hurling my only tools
at the light

around you
at night when we
lie in bed
at dinner tables
in restaurants.
I am weak.
[was weak, have been weakened,
am weakened still?]

And here is proof.
When you told me
of my bossing, of my
betrayal of secrets
of my presumptuousness
I cried with a twisted mouth.
And there was no sound.
And it was late.
Traffic snorting past the window.
I was only ashamed.
Nothing special.

You might wield this about me –
on trains,
in conversation,
in oil paint,
in other beds.
I wonder if you will need tools.

Or if I
will leave you
unscathed
and with no need
for bad
behaviour.

[It is not interesting to find excuses.]

 I asked myself,
‘what was broken
that
I need(ed) to turn sneakily
old shapes of clouds
into cutting edges?’

I like to think
it is different with you.
What, with no ending
anywhere in sight.
I don’t know what to do
with all this ocean.

But it hadn’t occurred to me (hasn’t still)
to freeze and turn it into daggers.