It’s not about the last shots fired.
It’s about walls coming down,
moving forward, hands reaching out
to the lovers who make us think of roots
and a future we want to be a part of.
I’ve always loved music.
Loved the layers that all want
to speak. Instrumental beats
creating visual stories. Sounds
becoming colors and opening chest
drawers. Thick songs like honey
laying me down. Coating my skin,
sipping past the surface. I’m floating
an inch off the ground.
I could live inside the notes.
I could burst and
forget to breathe. Fall into a room
of light textured air and swirl
around and around.
My holy ground,
textures and intensities
all wrapped into one.
Feeling so good
I almost forget to breathe.
I won’t tell you that sometimes
my stomach suddenly burns with
resentment. My anger sits.
Hands folded. Shifting. Fistfuls of confusion. Paces between comfort,
for you, for me.
wanting to love you
and shutting the door. A wilting
thing I can never keep alive.
You do not want to see a
sadness that’s seething.
Please don’t corner me.
I have never wanted to be
like my father.
But I can’t let it fucking go.
So I pace and catch the boomerang chunks of my heart.
is as kind as it is cruel.
So I’m reading about how
it’s not about me and
instead means our lives weren’t
aligned right. So I’m
just reading how I need to let go.
I want to want to.
I need to want to.
I am fourteen steps forward
for every two, okay fine
three, steps back.
My watch counts it all the same.
I know better.
Know how I can’t tell anyone
how it still hurts.
How I honestly wouldn’t even know what to say
if even given the chance.
Except I’m sorry like it’s Sunday
morning and I forgot to kiss you
before I left. I was coming back
except you changed the locks.
Did you know what
that did to me?
Are you careless or just bloodthirsty?
I don’t know why it should matter.
Anyway, I’ve had a cough
for three weeks.
My throat is swallowing
anything trying to escape
and irony feels too warm
to not embrace it.
Mental illness means nothing
noticeably different until
you know better. “Oh you mean
not everyone feels like this?”.
It means learning your perception
is less objective when it’s moving.
Gliding, so fucking smooth.
The earth’s rotating at 1,000 miles
an hour. Did you ever ask yourself
why you can’t feel it?
My mental illness
is my body and brain moving
at a constant speed but no one else
got that message. It takes red flags
and slamming brakes to pause. It needs the world to stop spinning before it hits and suddenly I
understand how people who don’t know ask “but couldn’t you tell?”.
The answer is no, not in the
beginning. My brain is sand filled motion.Shifting so slowly
I never even notice
till I know better.
Little pill meant to fix one thing,
fixes more than expected. Fixes
what I didn’t know was fragmented.
I thought that was just the design.
I can’t say what’s right for
anyone but me.
My brain is sand filled motion.
Sometimes slipping through my fingers
even if it’s a little less each time.
1. Counting down the days
and the ways I know I will
miss you. I do not want to tell you
how hugging you makes me
breathe deeper and feel hollow
at the same time.
2. I’m supposed to be asleep. I’d
told myself I’d do better. Oh you
know how it goes. Late at night
halfway between sad and slipping.
The end is best when it drops between almost warm and closing.
3. I dream every night. I know
this is a sign. I ask myself to pay
attention. Even if it’s tucked into metaphors. The things I love
make me breathe easy,
make me light.
I want an anchor and
I want to levitate.
I can have both,
just not always at the right time.
So maybe my love isn’t
a bed full of roses or expensive
gifts. I won’t always be buying for
two or make the bed every morning.
Call it boring that I remind you to call the doctors or take your vitamins.
That I remind you to care for a body we both want to last.
Call it intangible because I can’t show you the things I do to make your life better and no not easier.
If the universe is saying anything
I’m not listening. Fine-tuning my
heart because I know
the static is just a little too loud.
I’m not ready yet.
I’m too tired. Too greedy.
Too detached. I’d try to get
onto your wavelength anyway.
We knew when this could
no longer work.
Our proximity can’t stay
when our connection has already
drifted apart. My love
let’s make the best of our bodies
and words. I turn the volume up.
I turn my voice down.
If the universe is saying anything
I hope I get the frequency in time.
Heartbreak was named correctly
and ours is slow.
Your hands no longer know
how to hold me.
We talked and talked but
our language was never
close enough. Once,
I saw you and knew
I could love you right.
I am too afraid to ask
how long this statement felt true.
You say all my hands can do
is push you away.
Once, I knew
how to hold you
so softly that I was
your favorite place.
Now we keep our
distance. Late night
whispering our truths.
Eyes heavy with love
occasionally pouring out
to reach the other.
It’s important to empty my pockets.
I remind myself
“do not keep anything
that is not yours”.
“nothing is mine” on repeat so
I can visit. I’ve learned to keep
my hands to myself. I still
empty my pockets when I leave.
I still don’t trust myself.
My body speaks when I won’t.