What if when we grow old
we rotted the way fruit does?
What if, as we crinkle in on ourselves,
we earn soft spots
where the mold has eaten us away?
We are plucked from our trees so young,
but we are ripe for so long.
What if when we rot
someone larger and grander
who can fit us in their hand
smiles as they throw us into the woods?
We hit trees and gain triumphant cheers.
We befriend the leaves
and we rot together.
What if when we grow old
we grew new life?
What if, as we crease and hunch,
we grow down and down
until we are rooted in place?
And we can be tall again
and beautiful.
Feb 15, 2020
Feb 15, 2020 at 1:27 AM UTC
It’s a crime
to paint such flowers
with so crude a brush.
Your skills, my lord,
confound me
and I present myself
to you humbly.
Your fingers are
calloused
and jagged, their edges
can cut if you’re not careful.
You touch so soft
your skin to mine
and I sizzle in your grasp.
You are the warmest
part of me and
even you are now
embers, but it is not
my duty anymore
to stoke the ashes,
as deeply as I wish
you would burn again for me.
A flick of the eyes
and a trick of the tongue
are welcomed warmly
by my singing heart.
Feb 15, 2020
Feb 15, 2020 at 1:22 AM UTC
This vessel is not yours,
But the wheel will still turn
Under your hand.
She creaks at your step
As though you may break through
Her soft Swiss boards.
She is stronger than you.
And she is still yours in part.
Do not forget that this
Is the only reason you do not
Crash below her decks.
She may turn for you,
But you are not welcome
Under the floor you let rot.
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 9:54 PM UTC
There is always a moment when you pull away from a hug. That is the moment when a kiss would occur, should the situation call for it. It is the moment when only your heads and torsos have pulled away. Your feet stay in place, tucked between each other in a pattern on the ground, and your hands stay where they are, but draped loosely instead of holding on tight. For a breath of time within this moment, you are in middle school. Your date to the dance sways across from you, your hands around her waist and hers around your neck. Neither of you know enough to hold on to each other, this is just how you dance. But you know to hold on now, in this hug. In this moment. There’s nothing you want more than to hold on. To lean in and make something count just a little bit more. The hesitation lasts longer than any breath you’ve held under the surface of a chilly lake in late May. It takes more air than you could win back in a lifetime. Hesitation rules for a synchronized blink of your locked eyes before it pushes them away from each other and your hands lose the grip they finally learned, giving up on what they longed for. Maybe your cheeks are pink. Maybe they’re used to this. And maybe you’re crazy, but you didn’t think you could miss the smell of someone’s spit.
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 9:53 PM UTC
A day will come, young traveler,
When a noble king and his sickly queen
Seek your wisdom
And your guidance.
But you have none to give.
You are no hero, you are just a boy
With a satchel and a walking stick.
But you are beautiful and kind
So a hero you are dubbed
By a noble king and his sickly queen.
They dress you as a knight,
Drape their sigil on your back,
And the horse clops away.
You ride tall
Until you’re out of sight.
You are no hero, you are just a boy
With a horse and a sword.
But a crest blows behind you
So you become a hope
And the children learn your name.
How can you see what’s at your back
In the wilderness without a mirror?
Use your shield, young knight,
You’ll be stone before long
So draw your sword or face the dirt.
Your armor is much heavier than before
Or perhaps you are weaker
And your sword is aching and twitching
Against your side, writhing in its
New, painful sheen.
How can you sleep
Under the gods and the stars
When both have seen what you’ve done?
Both have heard the scream
And smelled the reek of iron on your breath.
No, you cannot face them
So you look down. You sell your horse
To a man on a farm.
You leave your armor
On the banks of a river.
For you are no hero, you are just a boy
With a satchel and a walking stick
And stains on your hands.
And the king and queen say you are lost
So they light a candle for you.
You are no hero, but you are no boy.
Your feet are weathered
And your eyes are warm with the sun.
You are not lost, young traveler,
You are exactly where you are.
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 9:52 PM UTC
It is me
that is destined to
be spilled across
the muddy ground.
It can be
no one else’s pelt
that warms your foyer.
Did you hunt me yourself?
Or did you find me
as I left myself
take me in
and dub me your ****
Tell yourself it counts,
an accidental shot.
Stretch your toes
on my back
as you sip your morning coffee.
Beat me in the garden
in the spring air.
Choke on the filth
I’ve collected.
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 9:50 PM UTC
I bought a slingshot
from a cartoon ad
at the back of my comic book.
I made a target
from a piece of wood
and it kinda looks like a person.
I collected rocks
from the school
but only the ones that are sharp.
I waited for the mail
with Mrs. Kliven next door
whose son is in the military.
I got my slingshot
from the ad in the book
and all my rocks fit in it just right.
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 9:50 PM UTC
The apocalypse,
I think, will smell
like peppermint
essential oils,
a lover’s
deodorant,
and organic
lemon soap.
It will smell fearful,
a bluff for
gentle, winding fingers
in a flurry of youth.
It will smell strong,
a stench that you
breathed in slowly when
your neck was buried in it.
It will smell filthy,
accompanied with the
crunch of insect shells
that sends the others running.
The apocalypse,
I think, will smell
fresh and clean and
as if it’s only yours.
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC
So how is it,
do you think,
that after time has passed,
however long that
“x”
stands for,
that we will be?
That you will be?
That I will be?
Because darling
I’m afraid of what
will change
from all of this.
From us.
From you.
From me.
Change is important
and beautiful
sometimes.
I know this.
But I am allowed
to fear the unknown
and I am more than
expected
to fear nothingness.
Are you sure?
You may want to
reconsider your
response.
I hope you used pencil,
and I am standing by
with an eraser.
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 11:43 AM UTC
I am a menace.
Scuttling between paper leaves
and doors. I can’t tell
which ones are unlocked.
My clattering legs will
skitter across your countertop,
and I have felt so small.
I have been out of sight
longer than I’ve been alive
and I knock your dishes
onto the under-grown floor.
The tinkling of porcelain
is my alarm clock.
I bounce off the fine china,
my arms stretched around me,
and I wonder how
you could miss all these pieces.
My hands are too small
to cause such destruction.
But my hands can reach
much further than yours.
So I slide myself between cracks.
I become a line,
another crack,
and I bring you the slivers.
Wedged between the tiles
and glittering from termite holes.
I bring you the glue
and my sickly face blushes
from embarrassment
and apologies.
I am learning what good
my hands can do
as I bandage and kiss
your poor, ****** fingertips.
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 11:42 AM UTC