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.
There is something to be said
about keeping yourself
a little hungry throughout
the day. There is something
to be said about
visiting a grave and expecting
Every time I think
the same thought
I feel the weight
into my memory.
The thought of you
is so heavy
I’m not sure how
I’m still holding it.
The slight pang in my stomach.
An ache. A pretend thread
pulling gently. A doctor would
ask for more symptoms.
Tell me what other signs
to look for just to make sure
it’s nothing serious.
That I already know.
I was never anything serious.
As for signs, I try not to
be surprised anymore. Try
not to be startled at the
entwined pieces that
you’ll never know.
I’m still thinking of that painting that historians can only provide speculation.
I think art whispers to you
asking you to feel inside.
I try to visit even less.
That painting leaves me restless.
I want to know.
I want to know.
I hope I left you uneasy.
I’m tired of feeling foolish
that’s the honest truth.
But the body is a museum and there
will always be a spot for you.
You are the picture in the corner easily missed. The one
I found that day. Sometimes
we shadow the things
we can’t face directly.
if you feel a pang
that feels like an ache
that feels the way dust looks
caught between swirling and
settling to the floor
know that it’s me.
Mirror I hope you are well.
I’m in love like honeymoon over and
baby being next to you is the best
best fucking part of my day
and yes my humming hymns are for you
and no I don’t know when I changed
but you say you want something and I think “me too”. I’m screaming inside
with love for you and no you won’t
hear it all the time. Something
about skin and lips and doors
that can’t open easily.
Peek under the door and know it’s
all for you. Put your ear to the floor,
baby it’s all fucking for you.
I like to speak in
mazes if x marks the spot
a little too well.
Reframing words around my tongue
like hands rolling glass back and forth.
Reframing in a way that does not sound
like I want to cry.
Awareness is the understanding
that there is a knot of different colors
evoking emotions that I need to untie
so I can understand.
What is an emotion
that has different voices?