How could I think that I can be home to this?
I harbor flaming pyres inside of me in the name of gods I don’t believe in.
Sometimes I feel that this vessel is navigating under the command of a madman.
I feel like I’m crashing into eternity and my eyes have seen nothing but everything.
I feel like I’m too old. I feel like I’m too tired.
Sometimes, something stirs inside, like a crow in its nest high up in her perch.
Untouchable, black and loud.
Like the dark sound coming from the vents that were my lungs.
Like the oscillating white noise inside my head.
A lightbulb at the end of the hall. A moth at the end of its rope.
The long, lingering walk to the beginning of the end.
The sigh left of a crescendo.
Caterpillar made a mockery of my eyes.
I know what I saw.
Now you have wings and you pretend like you know me.
You know my name and you want to be the ambassador of my love.
You’re nothing but a mutiny disguised as hope.
You’re hope dressed as a sailor and you’ve weighed anchor on my shores.
I’ll be the bitch you fuck tonight. In the morning you’ll be gone.
Burnt cigarettes and a leftover glass of chardonnay to remind me of a trespassing.
Your skin felt like forever stretched over my bones, my muscles, my veins and you held sway over my affection. Your eyes; intruders.
You washed over me like a river of sin. And I sank. Like a stone I descended. Into the abyss.
I have lost hope in words and phrases. I have lost hope in the promise.
All I have left is a canvas. On that canvas you draw me virginity. You draw me sanctity.
I built a cape of that canvas and I wore it on the day I was born.
I was a spot light coming on. I was a whirring and a buzzing. I was a dank, dark, room. I was jazz.
I was that stone you skipped across the lake. The one that you held in your eager hands and that you deemed perfect for the task at hand. You thought I would skip right into the future and save you from yourself.
I am the ripple. Echo.
The string is broken in the grand piano.
You’re 2 minutes too late.
Your shoes are untied.
Your mouth is out of luck.
Your face is strange.
Your voice is weary.
Your tempo’s off.
Your shoes don’t tap.
Your love falls like a house of cards.
You are whisked away on the Jack of Trades.
You dance away while the music fades.
Tiny dancer in my hand now a tumbleweed.
A slow poison, a suffering, mourning, waning, waiting, savoring, whimpering.
Your love is quicksand and I’m dying a slow death.
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