- GET PUBLISHED
Sometimes when you're
falling in love with the wrong person
you dig skeletons out of closets.
You pull out guns that haven't been used for years and shine their barrels until they are ready to create destruction.
This is every lost note and
words that someone forgot to speak before the train took everything they ever wanted away.
My thoughts turn into rockets in the back of my throat and skirt just over comfort before they explode in the air; giving me the real thrills that are only comparable to our almost
Crows ring my eyes and yet
I cannot fly.
Our wrinkles make us beautiful.
They remind us that we have not taken the easy path.
We have loved the sun,
embraced it and steeped our pores in ultraviolet.
Withering supplies proof of happiness, of past vivacity --
we once had something precious...
Something that astrology explains eerily well: I with my sign am a passionate, hopeful person. You with yours are a loyal, practical one.
We disagree when it comes to miracles.
I'm always looking for them- pulling you places, showing you things, changing for you. Especially in our relationship.
You never see what the point is in looking for them. When I pull you places, you focus on me, not our surroundings. When I show you things, you turn me around show me... us. When I change for you, you like the old me better.
This is the result of some ambush inspiration to write a book. I'm posting it so that I will not forget about it or give up on it.
It could have been me.
It could have been me,
& I’m sorry.
I’m sorry because I know
that it takes a village
to grieve a child
& that what you did
would’ve been near-impossible
if you had known that.
But you never saw it,
never witnessed the aftershocks
from a seven-point-nine degree earthquake
on the suicide Richter scale.
& you never will.
I’m praying to every god I don’t trust
in every heaven I don’t believe in
that you get an all-access pass.
Every day I resign myself
to walking into the women’s bathroom,
will broken, eyes straight ahead.
Can’t risk waltzing into the
little boys’ room
only to be discovered,
don’t know if I pass --
it's funny how you assume that this
is a one-sided performance,
with you, my pedestrian pedestrians,
starring as the audience.
Explain the seas. Explain the foam-opaque
bubbles in Chinese walling-hangings, so prolific
I can't taste rice without the faint
tang of salt and calligraphy.
Lately, I have been judging the amount of respect I have for myself by how much jewelry I wear and how often I brush my teeth.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Have you ever felt..."
"It's kinda stupid."
"I'm sure it's not."
"C'mon. You know me."
"Well, even if it's stupid, I won't laugh. I promise."
"Would you like a pinky swear or would you just like to ask me whatever it is you want to ask me?"