The memories are pinned to dry in the dark room
Chemical droplets falling on my tongue
The bruises form on my body
Giant purple nebula that twist and take on
New forms and shades
A dull pain that aches when alone
A beast chained and locked away
I swallow the key
He will find it
And he will be free
His claws reverberate as he crawls along the ancient stone floors
His moans and growls echo in the darkest reaches
Beneath the smile
Beneath the polite gestures
Beneath the polished fake surface coat

And a woman who held a babe against her ***** said, "Speak to us of
Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,
not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you
with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that
is stable.

there’s a heart
grown heavy
laying in bed
trying to wake
up

453 times he’s said
to himself
“wake up”
but it’s only putting
him back to sleep,
a hypnosis
untended
or fate that cannot
be escaped?

wake up he says for
the 454th time
but his eyes stay shut
and he can hear birds
chirping their bird songs
outside of his
window

he can feel the weight
of his existence:
each social expectation,
each biological demand,
just another pound on
his shoulders
but
he’s been down
on the ground for a while
now

the heavy heart
prays to be
emptied

wake up, he says,
and counts 455
wake up, he says,
and counts 456
wake up he says
and counts 457
wake up, he says,
and counts 458
wake up, he says,
and goes back to
sleep

I was in love with anatomy
the symmetry of my body
poised for flight,
the heights it would take
over parents, lovers, a keen
riding over truth and detail.
I thought growing up would be
this rising from everything
old and earthly,
not these faltering steps out the door
every day, then back again.

you are a painter
and i am a
blank canvas.

paint a vivid
picture for me,
for us.

make sure to fill
my eyes with
the wonder and the
curiosity and the
infatuation that will
be present when
i see you for the
first time.

leave my hair
messy because you
are going to tell me
that you like it
that way someday.

include all of the scars
and the birthmarks and
the little wrinkles on
my skin that i hate,
because you will tell me
that you love every
little thing about me
down to the smallest
freckle on my cheek.

pay attention to all
of the little details.

you are a painter
and i am a
blank canvas
waiting to be turned
into something
beautiful.