i am hardly a skeptic when death comes to visit; i pray most for heaven, at the end of every something i had hoped would exist forever—as though i may someday find it again, in some far-off place, surely too holy for my ambivalence to reach.
-
“paper cuts”
you regard my lacerations
with what seems like disgust,
you toss me band-aids
made for paper cuts
and i’d never wish this kind of pain
on anyone,
but not just anyone can grasp
the gravity of an agony
that does not bleed
or threaten the rhythm
of a steady heartbeat.
a broken heart is no broken bone
and despite being diagnosed,
i could tell the whole world
that i’m feeling blue
but they’ll just tell me how
they love that color, too.
-
“i am innocent”
my mouth tastes like someone else’s
as my voice rattles away like a criminal
upholding their morality with sullied hands,
“i am innocent,”
but my reflection is an omniscient sleuth,
a suspicious judge, who i can’t fool.
i’m not innocent, but i wish i was,
while i scrub and i scrub
and my hands still feel unclean.
i’m not innocent and i don’t need to be,
i can still be whole
and i can still be worthy,
but, oh, how i grieve;
although i have been pillaged,
at least i am not the thief.
-
untitled ramblings
i watch movies and i hear songs
and i peruse books with a broken heart
because i don’t recognize love on screen
or in the lyrics people sing
or on the pages that i read.
-
“rulers make poor lovers”
i am not a queen,
though i’m told my body is a kingdom.
i fall in love and consider that somewhat true,
but my body is an empire
for someone else to rule.
i am just a plot of empty land with potential
if your hands are gentle,
i could be a place to build a home,
but rulers make poor lovers.
their kisses leave bullet holes,
and now my promise is squandered;
they make me a warzone
and leave once i’m conquered.
-
“a bird for a day”
you ask me where i would go if i was a bird for a day, as though everyone just wants to escape some town, as though anywhere else fosters comfort. you expect to hear Rome or Paris fall wistfully from my lips as i imagine soaring toward a sky that looks like nirvana to people who hate feeling the earth beneath their feet. how do i express to you that wings would be wasted on someone like me, without sounding like someone afraid of things like heights or concepts like change? how might you think of me when i tell you it’s not a place i wish to leave or a place i hope to reach? i could be a bird and i could fly across the world, but i’d still ache in Venice and i’d still yearn in Barcelona for something you can’t find on a postcard.
-
“forgiveness”
forgiveness looks so tender, with soft eyes and gentle hands; her voice sounds like a lullaby after a slew of sleepless nights. she offers mercy to the merciless and sutures her own wounds without closure, without apologies, without vengeance. for the longest time, her remission repulsed me – i misconstrued her resiliency for compliance. i condemned her for how mildly she attained peace, when what she truly deserves is applause for seizing peace at all.
-
“things people used to call me”
some used to say i had the potential to be something great, like this isn’t the case with just anyone, at any point, when we can always be something more than what we were the day before. some used to say i was smart and my grades were the proof, but it’s been years since i’ve stepped foot into a school and if wisdom is measured in degrees or A’s and B’s, i haven’t had a worthwhile thought since 2016. some used to say i was sweet, but i think they confused my passive tongue for a candy heart, because some people think you’re mean the moment you’re not flat like a carpet inviting their stampede. some used to say i was good, but i find that the standard varies; i’m good when my voice speaks softly and i’m the worst when my words snap like pointed teeth, i tell the mirror “i’m good enough” but my mind shouts back, “hardly.” some used to tell me they loved me, but they eventually stopped and despite how few of us talk, i still study myself to find and fix anything about me that could make loving me wrong.
-
“a dime a dozen”
i won’t try to scare you with the promise that you’ll never find another girl like me, when we both know what’s most terrifying is just how common i can be.
you’ll never want to see my eyes again, but you’ll spot them everywhere, like dirty windows, as light and clear as smudged glass.
you’ll see a hundred brunettes a day with hair tumbling down their sagging backs, with lazy buns and bangs to help hide the faces they can’t stand, faces you’ll start hating too.
they’ll cry enough to combat the worst of droughts because they’ll have issues that ignite like gasoline and i can’t wait for you to learn that i was never as obscure as you swore i seemed.
they’ll ask about the things you hate and things you love and things you like somewhere in between and they’ll beg you to place them in one of those categories.
they’ll question if they exist and if they do, they’ll wonder if they should; you’ll hold the bodies they loathe while they compare themselves to something they think you’d rather have, because we’re well aware of how typical our mouths must taste and how mundane it must sound when we confess how we’ve never loved someone like you before.
–
