M. Hank

summer's like  /  skips on a record player, pink and beat up by two moving vans and two generations of children who danced to the Bee Gees on  /  rugs that aren't there anymore  /  i have successfully wasted three mon

You 

love me 

fast, miss me 

faster, I ran to 

you, now running away takes 

much longer. To get to you  

Is this really what it means to be American? 

To say: Only certain people can be who they are. 

To start wars. 

To cause pain. 

To put others beneath you. 

Family wears many faces— 

For some, it’s warmth and comfort, 

For others, it’s silence or storm. 

Often, we search for it in strangers, 

Bound not by blood, 

But by soul. 

If only I could hug

The stars;

Perhaps I could shatter them

And cup the shards

In my palms,

The cracks constellations

Aligning with my veins,

But that isn’t close enough