isnt it sweet?
how much the human heart is able to bare,
the lines between support and manipulations that
past-lovers have drawn for you,
isnt it sweet? how much you will
carry for the people who arent quite yet
past-lovers, how you will draw boundaries
and cross lines just to touch, just to feel, just to
create some sort of tangible memory for when you
sit with only their names left in your mouth, isnt the
line between sweet and naive based on experience?
isnt it naive? how far you will go to love people into
boxes, how you will let yourself fall apart and
you will watch them spit you out onto the floor and still
you have so much faith in every single rushed kiss and
almost-memory that one of these people you let touch you
with the lights off, one of these people you will drink
into your poetry will be more than just a past-lover?
for someone who was never
meant for this world,
I must confess
I'm suddenly having a
hard time leaving it.
of course they say
every atom in our bodies
was once part of a star.
maybe I'm not leaving.
maybe I'm going home.
to say I am my own
is a misunderstanding.
I am not my own.
I have no business living in my body.
every so often
a soul enters and departs
slipping and evaporating like clouds
and hazy veils of smoke.
the souls tell me who they were
and what they weren't.
I can no longer help them
since their time is up.
no wonder people ask
"what are you thinking about?"
for souls pass through me like doors
and gates left cracked ajar.
to say I am not myself
is an understatement.
I am emptied.
I hold weary travelers as if they were my own.
before the sun rose
my father would come in
gummy dried tears
hold my hands so that
he'd rub every crick and knot
that came on a very small set
of shoulders that carried the world.
— The End —