I don't think there are road maps
for these things;
I think the naivety of childhood has taken this long to uncover
blank stares and clenched fists, I think the nights
weren't so long when you got more than 8 hours
to rest your eyes.
I am slowly just molding
myself into different versions of who I want to be,
but my hands fumble and put the pieces in all
the wrong places before they get it right.
I softly take the thought of forever out of its box, wondering
if it will ever ring true or if it is simply another
of those lies that are spoon-fed to you until you can't
base your own experiences on fiction or reality anymore.
Do you want to know what we do in the dark?
This is different; the way secrets spill
from open mouths and the way our eyes are hazy from
drugs or tiredness /lowered inhibitions/,
in these moments we tell each other everything and forget about
spiked armor and the sound of death chasing
at our heels. We scrape our fingernails against
half-truths and discover the way honesty melts on our tongues,
warm, like we've forgotten what it feels like and are only just
welcoming it back into our bodies.
I want our dreams to realize the timing that clouds
our psyches with shared bliss, can you take a moment
and spell that out for me? What do your eyes see when we strip
the dusty fabric away,
are you closer to knowing
who I am? Are you closer to knowing
why we could never bee what we thought we should, because
reality is not born out of story-books, and picket fences don't
distill the truth enough to make it palatable?
We've had to learn ourselves to covet
all the places we've found to pour our hearts into, we've had to shield
any possible innocence and sharpen our teeth to guard it.
But now that these things are done and
there's dirt under our nails from burying those dreams,
take a shovel and tear them out of the ground, because it is never going to get easier, and you have to learn
this before it gets much worse.
Tear those half-hopes from the womb and force
them to breathe, they must choke on this polluted air before they are able
to claw their way into the light.
Stop burying what is meant to fly and don't turn your demons too soft, they have to go
through hell before this passes. But it will.
And when the sun comes up again and the ache sinks so deep through your bones
that your body collapses,
you will learn that these pains are a part of teaching you
how to be human, and your words
won't sink like stones anymore, you will learn
to deepen roots within yourself and to take these realities
with you, twisted through with your own hopeful fictions -
each in turn, will come to fruition and each in turn will both ruin
and create you - at once the struggle
and the passion
of becoming moldable and