My words morph out of place— would you
still entertain the thought of me in the end?
Every star rules its own space,
but the circumstance of a cosmos knots me up,
its circumference bending beyond my grasp.
A smile cracks the mirror—
I cut myself and I bleed from the shards.
Alone in my room, my sighs are heavy
as a tomb buried under the world.
It’s cold, too cold, and I’ve waited for
the heroic ******, that movie moment
where the hero rises—but I’ve climbed my max.
My throat feels split by an axe.
It’s all out of my hands; I tried to leave
it in God’s hands, but faith feels like
hand-me-downs— worn thin, never quite mine.
I light another cigarette, to drag time along with me.
I am not a sad song, just a tune people sing
along to, a chorus written in tears.
Tear me apart, piece me back like armies
lined up only to be shot down.
And when I fall again, I look up,
choking on the silence, and ask,
"Is this really the life I was promised by God?"
But then again, I did this all to myself!
