Jan 10

clumsy icarus

in all my short time, the
literary references to icarus never
disappointed, but for the first time
i seem to find them so deeply and
heart wrenchingly relatable.

your sun rose, in a flurry of orange 
and white, bathing me in something warm,
something that seemed to fill me,
satisfy me.

like a child excited for the first day of spring,
i ran and i ran, until i flew up, sprouting wings from
my back, knowing that i would never
cry again if i could just touch your golden edges.

i didn't realize my tan skin had turned red,
and that my back was sore and bloody,
wings tearing a new hole that needed to be filled
by your care.

i didn't realize that my wings were made of wax,
and that i wasn't nearly strong enough for you and
your golden life.

when i fell, it didn't hurt, but i cried because
you never even saw me drowning, reaching,
waiting for you to finally love me.

i asked for you to take me back to when
your smile didn't make me ache, to when
you lit me up, to when i thought i was wanted. 
(i don't think you ever really wanted me)

but you left me, in my room,
dreaming of icarus and staring at 
the words you read.

i want to believe that you're haunting me,
your laugh echoing off of the walls, your eyes 
in everyone i see, but sometimes i feel like
maybe i'm the ghost.

i feel like i might be the ghost, and every minute
more that i spend sitting on the floor is another minute
that i haunt every memory of you, waiting for something
inside of me to stop working so that i can just
stop feeling
everything.