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“maybe it was uncustomary to think so but you’ve never been more beautiful than when fragments of pain fell in liquid form, glimmering with the bitter kind of mourning that comes with every level of heartbreak.”
I’ve learned this isn’t just another case of lust. I know this is love. I want the world to know this is love, but I can’t bring myself to tell anyone anything because I can’t seem to find the right words that would do you justice. Words that would make me feel good enough for you and for us to be true. I need to spend a day with you and your smile before before I bite off more than I can chew. I need to hold back the confessions of obsessions that have made my feelings only explicable with the cheesiest lines about love. More thought has to be put behind what I say about you, just in case I end up with you.
(she was, she really was-)
blocked like nothing blocks nothing
dinner plate eyes chipped-tender eyes
eyes scraped by forks by
too many people fed off you
shoveled into you with their
you’re the plate, porcelain,
stained deep with scars slight
(save for those few that i noted
“Have you ever heard anyone convincingly explain why they’re drawn to beautiful things?”
I think a lot about the depression on your chest between your lungs but more than that I think about my hand gently pressed against it, fingertips sloping down to the palm in such a curved motion that math would retract, taken aback. That is not what I want to talk about, though. In May we had pouring rain and water would collect in the dimples of your collar bones, I know this because I always felt the damp remnants of mist-carried streetlights and a washed away city - and how so. Shuffled between a sheet and a duvet and a sheet would be moisture on my eyelashes from trekking across your skin and understanding how nature works, in her quiet ways, by how she treated you at night. It was well, incomparable to my backhand sweeps attempting to cleanse you of debris and dust and particles which you argued should be fossilized on shoulders. And so, with that, when you creaked the door closed I would position myself comfortably on the bed, leaning in and streaking my eyes across your contours to read about your day. I learned from you by the language of your creases, for we all know how they form from particular movements, and your movements would carry a misplaced longing which I found so familiar in the sidewalk cracks of my youth. And the hammocks, dreamed of having them in a treehouse, now sway below your eyes, steady and holding onto each figure that has entered and left your life.
I am renouncing myself from you.
I cannot tell you that my hand fits perfectly onto your backbone when you slouch forwards into me, but I can tell you that looming in the pocket behind my ear will be a declaration of isolation.
I am not saying this to hinder you. It’s just that, well, the beauty you bear can mark a palm in uninviting ways. The hesitating breath of each blink you offered would thunder through teeth valleys. I want to use these hands for good, and you were never convincing.
When I Fell Asleep Beside You
When I fell asleep
beside you, bare,
with the salt from
your body still
on my tongue
in the indigo depths
of early morning,
feeling the movements
of your lungs through
the mattress and
watching the last
wisps of smoke from
the forest fire that
burned itself out
escape through your
a little piece of
my heart unfurled.
i remember when we were twelve and your mom died and you stood outside your house day and night. you’d call to me in broken english, through broken windows and broken teeth but the spindles on my bike spun mad, and loud, and fast. and everything spun mad and loud and fast until the night i was sixteen at the park and his words were thursday morning garbage cans that lined our neighborhood and his actions were pain. and i could picture your face for the first time in years. and you stood there in the dark, out the window, and on the floor, piecing together the bits of your broken home. i’m eighteen and our eyes meet sometimes, through the dredge of quarter life stench. i wonder. i muse. i follow the cracks down the road away from your driveway to that place near the cliff. and it’s summer again in ‘99. we’re hitting switches and scraping knees and it’s okay to miss my mom. it’s okay to spill the milk in the mornings and cry in the dark. but now all the bits of yourself you’ve purged are dripping down the stairs of the grade school and pooling near the mud. and sirens are flaring while your eyes glaze. will you remember me?
I closed the curtain last night,
You water drinker you, you were in my horoscope
for a month and a half and my tarot reading this morning.
You water drinker you, I wept like a child when you pressed your
lips to my forehead and like a woman when you cupped my face
and moved me,
but you, I am discarded and you,
you water drinker you
I closed the curtain last night
“Keep your chin up,” he said, with that sweet voice of his while my eyes were glazed over and my thoughts were ticking away into the darkness. “And stop pulling on your hair,” he added, as he slowly lifted my chin up with his hand and gently pulled my hand away from my hair. He kept staring at me with those sweet, sad eyes of his, and I realized that he has been killing the demon that lies within my heart and mind all along.
But those eyes, those sad, sad eyes; they made me wish that I had known this in the first place.
Palmistry doesn’t cover it the way a cliche could, but for my sake and yours, lets explore the concept that maybe even for a minute, a poorly stitched together heart line might mean something more than what it seems. Because like all the spiderwebs we walk through and the loose strings that brush against soft places behind my bruised knees, a misread line either drawn in the sand or read from my palm is enough to catch me off guard with enough force on an already upside down week— enough to doubt what is, what could be, what I can only assume isn’t true.
Faith in the unknown can only be just that; faith. But the unknown that is made unknowable also makes its own infidelity behind inscrutable lines.
I remember my hands were trembling with fear the first time I told you my big, dark secret. That my body was a canvas, a razorblade my paintbrush, and the blood pouring from my veins was the mountains and valleys. Leaning against the frame of my bed, intoxicated by the bitter smell of metal and blood, I waited for your reply; terrified. It felt like someone had ripped out a piece of my soul, the really dirty, stained with horror part and held it up for all the world to see, to mock at with cruel insensitivity. Minutes seemed to drag on for hours as I sat there clenching my fists like prison bars strangling my heart with fear and shame, just listening for that settle vibration of my phone, ringing with either acceptance or rejection. And then the moment came, that beautiful yet terrifying, sweet like honey moment when I read your words telling me that I was worth so much more than late nights of trying to escape from the darkness nipping at my feet and the demons clawing at my skin. Tears streamed down by freckled cheeks like raindrops rolling off wilted leaves as I slowly began to realize that I had nothing else to hide; not from you, not from us.
Suddenly in that moment of vulnerability and fear, my soul felt the precious warmth of freedom, and it was you. Only you.
Like the darkness as it meets the dawn after a night of terror and trial, you were my morning burning relentlessly with radiance and revival.
You were my sunrise.