Where light touches you
I see every little crack in your lips,
and every tiny hair on the side of your face
I see every single cell of skin,
and the empty space between them:
the cracks that you seep through
I see the columns of shadow along your eyelids cast by your lashes,
and where tears slide down your temples and into your hair,
I see the little shining copies;
the little crystal streaks
Where light touches you,
yourself is set not in shadow,
but in gold.
If we get scared, they have us in their pockets.
If we don't, all they have is blood.
And blood is not a weapon.
From what I remember, it was born growing.
It was born hot, expanding, glowing,
and the people were made of gold
and of fire.
And it kept growing, it kept burning hot, bright,
"So I was in English class, right," said the kid, "and the bell rang, and while I was switching classes, I got super thirsty, so I stopped at the water fountain, but then I remembered that this fountain is out of order and the only other one is in
Comments
There's a gentleness and sensitivity to this piece that give me tender feels. Somehow, you've made crying tragically beautiful. This poem feels like an expression of pure love and acceptance.
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