"humidified" poems
"I'll let you in on a Secret - I don't know when I'm joking."
We go to a fancy-type restaurant. A nice sit-down place. My baby blues are bottled on dark wood shelves and this isn't a detail that you plan to miscount for. Waiters in black ties and the plates are already on the tables and I know that you are relentless in their shining reflections.
"Wine and Dine my Sensibility."
My seventeen-year-old skin does not belong here. Follicles producing my scent are premature, to say the least. Cultivated romance looms beyond a horizon of pale-brown clouds littered with mid-highway makeouts - I expect you to paint me a brand-spanking-new Southwestern sky.
"Let's talk about You" -
A past-prime Adam's Apple says to me. Gnarled birds' nests perch atop my faintly skin-encased splinters - I flex in hopes of a migration, but not too
Far
Down
S
o
u
t
h
"They're coming."
Barely flinching teeth rattle around my peripheral and then You Are Gone! - or perhaps I am. We drown quickly in dim red-lighting, brick-laid air swallows and belches out a humidified and much sweatier you and I - and I'm getting turned on.
"You look nice today,"
they chant. Spay-legged spiders tumble out of dank eyesockets and nest somewhere deeeeeeeep in my brain tissue.
"Yellow looks good on a jealous, jealous girl-"
You laugh and call them back home.
Lock eyes with me as I impale upon a salad fork.
"Talk ***** to me."
Third-World Countries have been delicately dropped into what I thought were love poems to you. Vines grow around your mouth, soggy with the meal that I think is over. They chase each other through your teeth and I want to strangle myself with their slim and tender necks - like you wish I had. Dark green darlings giggle in my direction - such a Naive Little Girl!
"Ha."
Six lines later and I'm reeling you in.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
I want it to be so that
I am a dark mass of life
A dark, cataclysmic shroud of flesh
A size bigger than the problems I harbor; but not as big as my regrets.
Oh yes, to be a spiral of catastrophe, absorbing all that is in my path.
swallowing them,
engulfing them
quickly,
but,
quietly,
spitting them out anew,
And whole again.
I sought to be the storm before the calm,
the pouring rain after the thunderclap of liquid-silver-lightning.
To be a wave of confidence and setting myself atop the horizon of other people’s views.
To gradually become a giant,
to be a whirlwind of
...nothing.
Meanwhile here, I am a cloud;
A cloud of doubtfulness,
Perspiring at the mere second
A weak faulty existence
I am the aftermath
The reconciliation
The ending of what was thought to be the beginning
A mere cloud,
amongst other things
I want it to be so that I float,
otherwise, I am drowning
My humidified scrawny legs are sweeping steel floors,
littered with reflections of redrafted selves.
Reflections that mirror the broken shards of one's psyche
expected to form a whole mirror.
I put my ten toes to the cold steel surface,
while dragging my past selves as we crawl
to where the Dim light is.
yet I do not cast any shadows.
I want it to be so that
I am the lord of the flies, to decompose in a cleanroom.
To assert my existence within these four walls, with my breathe alone shaking the inner workings of my rib cage.
I want to hear the echo of my heartbeat in the throats of others.
To engrave my face into the delicate insides of their skulls, indefinitely.
To be memorable— no,
To be remembered.
Because even then,
Even with the strength of ten worlds
Even with the confidence of an idle king,
Even with the assertion of the Ten Commandments.
I am merely but a figment of my own innovation.
Walking in the city seems to only expose lively souls,
where Dim city lights accentuate dull features,
but even then—
Even with the Dim and powerful street lamps of the night cowering before my shadow,
It only seems to cast a dark reflection,
Articulated appearances and dialogues vibrate through the reflections cast by those Dim lamps,
And it was in that moment, I was acquainted with,
Someone I have not remembered
but someone I have chosen to forget
Jan 22, 2021
Jan 22, 2021 at 11:16 AM UTC