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Mercedes Sep 2018
one had the eyes of seas,
pupils of pain.
mouth poured out floods of
restrained stories
that caused their cup to overflow.
raindrops for fingertips,
not sure whether i was left
breath-taken, or as a fish
out of water.

another, with windswept hair,
windswept attitude,
dismissive, difficult, distant.
never seen, always felt,
didn’t want to be held,
or understood.

the next had matches for lashes,
a flame for a tongue,
opinionated, set alight
anything that didn’t sit right,
passionate for all the
wrong reasons.

but he, he was true to roots,
bloomed where planted
joints connected by the soil.
connected with many,
lost in none, none quite like him;
everywhere you walk,
he always finds you first.
Mercedes Sep 2018
yesterday,
i tripped over you again.
today, i made sure to
tie double knots.

yet, here i am again.
on the ground.

the sky seems
further away, (it is),
i’ve killed an army
of bugs with the weight
of my being;
the clouds tower over me,
the wind jumps
over my head.

i find myself tripping often.

only, these days
it’s you that seems further away,
i **** a lot
of time with the weight
of this feeling;
your absence towers over me,
my love jumps
over your head.
Mercedes Sep 2018
it wasn’t until the sun had set,
and the moon took over its shift,
and the morning came
that i remembered that:

yesterday kept many secrets
from me,
tomorrow makes promises
it can’t keep,
(yet still, i always find myself
giving it chances),
and today probably won’t
be any more trustworthy.
Mercedes Sep 2018
we were like
water filled balloons,
dropping
from high buildings
in the nights
december.

it was safe to say
january leave
a good impression
but luckily for us,
we haven’t seen it since.

december, please
give me your shoulder.

thirty-one/twelve came,
and we were waiting
for the ball to drop,  and
we were waiting for
the ***** to drop,  and
for boys to become men
and for someone to grab our hands
and for wrongs
to become rights  and
for the windows to be
opened,
for the fresh air to find us
amidst the suffocating smoke
and mistakes
that clogged up our lungs
so we couldn’t laugh how we used to.
three,

two,

one:
deafening screams,
fifty-eight people with
two hands
on two cheeks
with two eyes closed
and two lips
on two others,
and where were we?
the fifty-nine and sixty
were on the roof of the
apartment building,
staring at the stars,
wondering which one
was going
to die next.

you and I,
we were like bin bags
overflowing with waste
in the kitchen
with broken glass.


our material was stretching
so it was thin and grew
clearer with the more
waste it took
and just like that,
one/twelve was here.

so I put my two hands
on your two shoulders
with my two eyes  
wide open
and shook you
until your eyes rolled back
and your hair was a mess
and your ears were burning;

and we were waiting for
things to make sense, and
we were still waiting  
for the ***** to drop and  
for men to grow up, and
for someone to grab our hands,
for those wrongs
to feel right
for the door to be closed
and for the fireplace to burn
our troubles away
so we could laugh like we used to.

by twenty-three/four,
we had made
our mistakes into those  
falling  
stars instead of  
ourselves,
and our
memories part of the  
full moonlight,
and on the  
thirty-first of each month,  
we’d remember  
the times where  

we were like  
water filled balloons,
bin bags, overflowing
with waste
and emotional baggage,
dropping,
from high buildings
in the nights of december.

— The End —