9. 05. 2017

Your truth is scrawled across your knuckles,

like nobody knows you better

Like your mother looked at you when you were a kid and thought

“That boy’s hands are gonna get him in some trouble”

 

We were young and you wrapped around me like tree limbs

Like we were the forests to be explored

You showed me how butterfly becomes

How chrysalis entangles the undeveloped and forms the new

 

We were only children in hindsight,

if ever at all

I think of that avenue of possibility with

crimson cheeks,

9am tears

 

The years have now taken you prisoner

Long after sleepless nights and poison for breakfast

You were there when I couldn’t be alone

When I couldn’t make this couch feel like resting place

you were my resting place

 

If you were gone at least I could hope you’d ascended

But you are not someplace better

You are tucked into bed of grief,

target on back,

name on hands

 

(Pretty Boy)

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1.22.2017

Toxic

Swirling, circling, swelling, filling the room

Filling you

And poisoning us both

 

No matter what he told you, it is not pure

Because there is residue, and imperfection cannot dissipate into the air

It builds up

Creating borders and boundaries, forming walls around you before stealing the ones you had

 

Is there anything lonelier than self-imposed isolation?

Is the high keeping you company?

 

Your stitching is coming undone