Lungs burning with affliction, no prayer can help you realize that you are on fire. Help me, open my ribcage and read the encryption that is my heart. This is where my ideas form; this is where the magic happens. This is where trees become homes when I turn to prose. This is where love becomes tangible. Take the helm from my chest cavity and steer me home. Sew me back up and pretend you didn’t figure out how my mind works from studying my heartbeat. You can keep my memories there, keep my stanzas there. But you cannot lock up an idea.
Do you realize that every single time you open your mouth I’m wishing I could have a lobotomy? I don’t want my brain to miss you when you leave. I don’t want my heart to miss you when it realizes that it no longer beats in sync with yours. You can take yourself away from me. You can make me cry so the salt water stings my face like it’s a burning map. You can take my poems from my veins and scatter them in the river. But you cannot lock up an idea.
Oh Captain my captain, I think we are going down. But everyone is just an arm’s length from drowning. When life preservers are anchors and every single thing is whispering for you to sink. The Bermuda triangle is just another place where sailors go to pray and what kind of god ***** you in and tests you with a tempest? You and I are so much more than child’s play. Tell me to stay. Tell me my ideas do not belong on the ocean floor. Because you cannot lock up an idea.
If the sun shines through your blinds, think of me. Think of the morning. But without all your leaving. Don’t think of the bags packed, of the plane tickets bought. Of the ferry setting off its horn for you in the middle of the night. Think of the morning. Without all your leaving. With the coffee, with the metaphors that were leaking through the walls as you blinked. You wanted to keep them for yourself, hold them hostage in your bones. But you cannot lock up an idea.
So next time you think of leaving, think of taking the ferry across the ocean. Next time you think of whispering my secrets into the waves that kiss the rocks like they are not hurting anyone, think of me first. Without the poems. Before I even started writing. Remember how I chased butterflies and the sunset. How I begged you to let me climb up on the roof to watch the sun rise again. Remember that my ideas are my prayers to a god I have not yet found in the curve of your spine. Remember that I want nothing more than to not have to miss you. Remember that every time you dismiss my words, my art, my need to chase the sunset; you are diminishing my creativity. Remember that you cannot lock up an idea.