the cool wind in my hair
as you and I glide across
the cement jungle.
You make my life tolerable
in this crazy urban landscape,
my trusty metal steed that
helps me duck and weave in
stand still traffic of the Nation's capital.
nothing like flying through the city on you, my bicycle,
on this beautiful spring day. I know you can't speak,
but if you could, you would also say "wheeeeee" with glee.
This is a portrait of abandoment:
rusty spokes, faulty breaks, and negligent owners.
(I'm still lying on the sidewalk too, waiting for a reason to shift gears.)
the painful, unexpected blow
of the harsh truth
that you're fading out
of someone's life
like an old rusty bicycle
that's full of memories
from your childhood,
left alone, forgotten
in the attic
when you got a new one.
your life is evolving without me
a lot of expensive vehicles
a lonely broken bicycle.
i guess my world stopped
when you left,
and your world started
the second i am gone.
When I was six I was riding my bike through my neighborhood with my dad following in pursuit behind me
He told me to be careful while taking the corner because the turn was sharper than the smooth curves I had been blessed with knowing
But I was six and I was invincible and then I was face down in the gravel with bloody knees and tears pouring out of my eyes like they were directly connected to the fountain of youth
Each and every time I got on a bike after that I had this phantom pain in my knees from the rocks that had made me vulnerable
I still don't go near bicycles because every time I do I find myself reaching for bandaids
I have never been good at being open
The act of spilling my soul onto pavement was an terrifying idea up until the age of sixteen when I thought the world was mine to take
I threw caution to the wind and pressed my knees to the ground for people who didn't care about me and justified it as love
I didn't think about the time when gravel met my blood and I covered up my scars with makeup remover
It only took me three months to realize that I was not taking, I was being taken from
I reached for bandaids but the box was empty
I looked back to realize my dad wasn't riding behind me anymore and I was alone
My knees were bruised blue, mixed with a milky foundation instead of the pure blood red
They say hydrogen peroxide is supposed to help clean out the wounds with minimal pain but I swear I screamed to high heavens when I touched the wound I received three months ago
The bruises from sixteen had faded and the blood from six had dried but they were still there
Brimming underneath the surface
Sigmund Freud once said that unexpressed emotions never die and I suppose he was right
Because when I dipped that cotton ball in the pain reliever and touched it to my battered knee I think every nerve in my body combusted
Everyone looked at me and asked why I was screaming and all I could manage to tell them was that it hurt
They looked at me with bewilderment and told me it was just a paper cut and it would evaporate soon
I didn't know how to explain to them that the phantom of what used to be felt less like a ghost and more like a skeleton coming back to life with a new layer of skin
My bike is collecting dust at a yard sale and the memories should be sold with it but instead they're living inside me
You can sell your material possessions but no matter how hard you try you can't give away your scars
All I can hope is that someone someday won't look at my knees like they're a train wreck but instead look me in the eyes like I'm a person worth patching up