If the world was a metaphor,
we would manicure our animosity.
you’d file it down,
and once a week I’d paint it--
that way it’d always be clean.

Blueprints for bridges, spread out before me
(these are the things that the past has taught us to draw)

Fingers poised over pen
(and so I'm unable to erase)

Ears straining to hear
(these walls, too thick)

A lecture on how to instead build a dam
(and I hope you know I'm listening)

To slow the rush of the river
(you speak of waterfalls and buoyancy)

Of all that is wrong in the world
(so thank goodness I can swim)

you gave me sand beneath my feet,
and let me sink into this sanity.
falling down, hands on knees,
on ice, you let me slip.

the tip of my tongue was tied,
head turned the other direction
until the whiplash came to me,
snapping
in an instant, my neck
back into place.

i thought it cruel
(and i also thought i was wise)
but before the screeching stopped,
i thanked you.

what the label doesn’t mention is that
with rouge comes bone-white knuckles and a strangled reality:
saran-wrap and powdered lemonade,  
and bleach white soles shining through closed blinds
and closed doors that meant nothing until we begged of the key
and found the rooms to be empty--lit by only the fluorescents
and also the ceilings with the stars which I know now are made of plastic
dreams that dangle above
too many heads who have not shaken,
too many fingers glued together,
too many arms anchored
by all the silly things i should’ve buried along with
my listless apathy.

A million salty sentiments have built up on my bow,
but that adds only to my air of unadulterated honesty.
hands outstretched at odd angles, fists and fingers yawning,
unable to comprehend things like tides and currents,
those are the ones that find me.
but by you, I'm never sure if I'm seen,
for dark glasses have replaced your messy intrigue--
seemingly satisfied, your feet are
grounded. you don’t feel
the waves if you always
tie your sails down
in the evening.