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.