3.3.18
You first notice yourself settling,
sinking, like an old house
when the birds begin to fly and the robins build nests in your doorways;
You first notice the pale light
with your eyes closed, afraid that if you open them,
the sun will disappear.
She first watches you
lying, limbs sprawled, in the creekbed
your clothing muddy and your frame
all sunken in, like the old house.
She first loves you in the sunlight
her skin shimmering golden above you
and you first hear her name
when she whispers to you
that she comes from the wreckage of street-lamps and ashtrays
how the only lover she’s ever taken felt like
the scrape of ****** knees against sidewalk,
apprehension laying heavy in her stomach
and the nausea that comes from starvation.
She tells you that she
could never call the city home, never love it as she wanted
because every night her mother would scream at your father
something about a bottle and "you filthy lying *******
and every evening she went to sleep, and her ears bled
from the screech of taxi tires on the corner.
She wants a love that feels like
bonfires devouring kindling, spitting ashes up
into the sky, ablaze
with starlight and smoke –
mud oozing up between your toes as you run
and run
and run
from all the places that never felt like home.
She wants a love to consume all other loves,
a twisting, clawing, breathing thing
her heartbeats furiously pounding out a rhythm to escape
that place, and its stench, a rhythm
that implores the blurry lines of sunset to smother the land,
ethereal, burning
(burning you with it)
And so she first holds you
as the crumbling of her world brings a smile to her lips,
and you wonder as she sinks in her teeth
how many others there will be, after you,
and knowing that she
will be the first to ruin you
(And not caring if she does.)
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 6:59 PM UTC
3.3.18
You first notice yourself settling,
sinking, like an old house
when the birds begin to fly and the robins build nests in your doorways;
You first notice the pale light
with your eyes closed, afraid that if you open them,
the sun will disappear.
She first watches you
lying, limbs sprawled, in the creekbed
your clothing muddy and your frame
all sunken in, like the old house.
She first loves you in the sunlight
her skin shimmering golden above you
and you first hear her name
when she whispers to you
that she comes from the wreckage of street-lamps and ashtrays
how the only lover she’s ever taken felt like
the scrape of ****** knees against sidewalk,
apprehension laying heavy in her stomach
and the nausea that comes from starvation.
She tells you that she
could never call the city home, never love it as she wanted
because every night her mother would scream at your father
something about a bottle and "you filthy lying *******
and every evening she went to sleep, and her ears bled
from the screech of taxi tires on the corner.
She wants a love that feels like
bonfires devouring kindling, spitting ashes up
into the sky, ablaze
with starlight and smoke –
mud oozing up between your toes as you run
and run
and run
from all the places that never felt like home.
She wants a love to consume all other loves,
a twisting, clawing, breathing thing
her heartbeats furiously pounding out a rhythm to escape
that place, and its stench, a rhythm
that implores the blurry lines of sunset to smother the land,
ethereal, burning
(burning you with it)
And so she first holds you
as the crumbling of her world brings a smile to her lips,
and you wonder as she sinks in her teeth
how many others there will be, after you,
and knowing that she
will be the first to ruin you
(And not caring if she does.)