we should have
said it right there
that night we danced
to the sounds of our
pitiful attempt of some
song snorting through our
noses. people were looking
then & it was embarrassingly
good, like our own reality show
with no hidden scripts or planned
settings but now people are looking
but not at the perfect-imperfent
memory of what they should have
done or will do but at the silent moments
we share, five months old & i'm still
having a one-sided conversation with
your headstone
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
I have no theories to share but my thoughts make up facts of their own. The light buzz that you feel when sitting standing and being still;
Like blind city lights with no blurs in between
the sting and pestering rashes random pair of eyes leave on your skin;
the space between your baby hairs and sweaty tanks;
the one that leaves pursed pores when kissed stroked and grazed on. A museum with your scattered footsteps only,
but your stories are ceilings today, leaving long chapters in people’s minds; lazily untouched by a misunderstood question.
Or an abused rock.
The many hours spent with palms crouched, held over still telephones.
The thin line of desperate expectation vibrates. On. On. And on.
On still. A ring cracks the dialogue in your mind.
The walls sigh at your mother’s worried tone peeling the spaces in your eardrums, your heart, and your will to live.
“Your sister asked of you today, do you not want to see her again?”
I don’t know. The mirror hasn’t said a thing yet. My body shook as I walked today and the world felt funny. I couldn’t will my pulses to stop racing time. Water came out from my pits; forehead and the ocean had no apologies to offer.
I opened my lips long enough to snap them hard, sufficient to miss my tongue. That’s your eyes scurrying away and me sinking again.
The phone is full of rhetorical questions and the world feels heavy but the ground seems light and my tongue feels dry.
There’s a stem with broken branches where my life seeps out, hurriedly, out of pale skin. The missed train will understand. The pills that were never enough will understand. The weak rope will understand. The short buildings with deceitful apex will understand. Missed opportunities’, heaps on heaps on heaps, will understand. My sister’s polite concern will understand. And so will my mother’s constant worries.
But my theories remain the same. A misunderstood fact. The mirror stares back, blank and patient;
like the blood sputtering out my tongue wasn’t reason enough.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
there’s a book that sits on the dining table
trying to catch the unsaid words between tingling
plates and blushes that run up the roots
of what happened last night
& the past week that you weren’t here
so the bed feels colder than the concrete on
our neighbor’s body
& the prayers uttered on it
how my sister stabbed me with
a pair of fabric shears the other night while
we were talking of the moon , bad cigarettes
& other things our hands couldn’t grasp
& the dog left stained patterns of its journey
to the tiny forest near the house with the
white clouds you know? the one you never go to
I think that’s her way of telling us stories
so forgive me for the mess because
stories need to be heard & understood
I forget sometimes to check the mail box &
read your thoughts on a different kind of sky
& how I should do the sane things in life
but at night your voice soaks the sheets
& I remember that we have no dog
& I get lost sometimes looking for sanity’s footsteps
& how my sister left a message to remind me
of the date & that the calendar she
left on the dining table gets dusty trying to
count the days left till I have you again
as I am tired of the rain pelting the roof & the wind
blowing against my mistake of setting the table for two
& three
but mostly
it hurts to remember the pile
of broken white wood along with letters of familial
strange concerns &
one with your name plastered on it
& death as its signature
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
your heart is the bottle of jack held snug
in between your hands
the heavy sighs of regrets flows into the rhythm of the slurred tales smothered at the tip
of the bitter choices; your tongue and its companion
the curiosity hidden in the wrinkles of your lips has leaped, died
& turned into a tale for prying innocence
like a child with no taste for exotic lies
one whose father went on an adventure to a world with no family & no love it’s just
Him, peace and weary smiles
one who kicks the dirt that covered his father’s eyes praying it feels what he feels
a selfish pain with no one to sneer against
one who grows up to hold a pretty girl’s hand
& buy her roses
read boring fiction like a eulogy &
kiss her forehead anytime a
a wrinkle ticks and a thought is trapped
answer her questions with an honesty that offends the sky, he treats her like the things
he admired from afar as a child. she
the new superhero toy,
the fastest car on the plastic lanes or the comic book with so many pages.
treasured, admired &
cherished till all that was left was what could be seen
a skeleton with no bones to carry
the weight of all that was left behind
he closes her eyes and threads the dirt on her clothes
hoping it’ll turn to her skin somehow
walks till all that is visible is the sun’s pity in his line of sight
the lights are always off, lamps always broken
the books too worn out to reflect her smiles
the striped porch with its many uninvited inhabitants becomes his bed
with a bottle held closely to his chest
neck tilted up as if to ask for more stories about her
the neighbors say all they heard were rumbling bottles rolling & crashing, muffling the name
being called for right before he was dragged
limp and lifeless with
a shard of glass on his left palm
& a heap of sand clenched in the other.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC