how can it be that the only person
I hate on this earth
is the one who released me into it's arms?
you know, you can't be taught to love.
you can not ride a bike
the moment your raw skin touches
it's hard, torn leather seat.
there are no extra set of wheels
to guide you home,
especially when you don't have one.
love has become a sticky bag of green
tucked beneath my waistband;
a song from the 70s I will never hear live.
a white aerosol can that smells how winter
once felt, but only lasts in flashes of memory.
"it could always be worse"
is what they'll tell you.
but the fact of it is,
this is my reality:
a pound dog with it's collar too tight-
pink scars from the weight of the chains-
wincing whenever an arm is raised.
I wish I could drive a mile without
wanting to bury myself
in a metal grave, without a tag under my skin
marking
my
every
step.
signs are just an option.
countless turns too quick on the highway
in the car my parents let me use,
but never taught me to drive.
this pain, they dug it inside,
engraved in the roots beneath soil,
so deep that the sun can not leave its burn-
and then they locked up all the rusted shovels I could have used to find it.
the matter in the world is constant,
never made nor stolen away.
materials will fade and be born anew.
but emotion is infinitely expanding,
knowledge is control.
and love?
love is now only impossible.
on this earth, life is all I was given,
but I don't want a single part of it.