They’re green now, your eyes, portals to the waters filling Caribbean reefs; usually filled with brooding, churning fog, how refreshing it is to see them match the vastness on distant shores.
So delicate, your porcelain skin; my fingers flutter, yearning to feel their silk, yet remain incapable of shattering the pristinity, brought by layers of makeup covering thinly veiled scars.
Scars which came one awful night, when countless shards of metal and glass cut through flesh, shredding muscle, tendon, and sinew, splitting bone to marrow.
I am brought solace, however slight, knowing your pain is finally gone, but my heart hasn’t mended, not yet. How I long to see you wake, for the world to be lit by your brilliant smile, filling my heart to the brim, letting it beat once again.
There’s this sentiment, this lie, this need stuck between the folds of my irises, Laced in seamlessly with my eardrums, Glinting off compassion and appreciations. Your compliments strike my ears the way chips fill my gut, fattening my ego with empty calories.
I can’t ignore the love handles in the mirror, not as I clasp the loose skin around my waist; it looks like a swallowed a car tire whole. I’m still digesting it, Like an anaconda might.
Pulling the skin off the rough bone And sinew underneath, I make sure to reason, delicate in preserving my self-kindness: comparing myself to others.
My waist may be wide, but so are their’s; this flaw isn’t mine alone to bear. Yet, they don’t have the legs I do.
Vanity, such a comfort, finding the good amidst the bad, lighting the way for darkness to follow. There, the logic goes, if I am the same, then I must be better. A way to assuage my panic over dreaded commonness, an excuse to avoid becoming someone.
And so I remain misled, complacent by pride, packaging my soul in with the norm, our thoughts melding into one semi-coherent Blob.
I know what depression is, A mind-addled sickness brought On by broken wings, hobbled.
The same way love turns the Eyes to rose, it turns the Eyes bloodshot yellow.
My heart ached so much Those days, pounded so loudly, Striking hand held to breast.
Turgid pulse brought with it pain, Twisted the world, Inched me closer towards bitter shadows.
Years later, I sit with those memories And remember everything, but Can’t place the feeling of a racing heart, Or a strained soul.
days once crippled By the brooding fog, harsh to the breakings of light, now lie tainted, filled with pleasant memories.
May my ignorance be better for it; Bliss is waiting on the other side.
I have never felt like More of an animal than when I was on a school bus full Of boys, a shaken jar Of bees.
I had forgotten this feeling Until recently, when driving back Over a bridge from my grandparent’s house, I asked my partner to put on Credence Clearwater Revival.
I was feeling a particular blend Of freedom and righteousness, The kind which spurs the horses Of justice, the same one Which spawned the words Of John Fogerty.
By the end of the first guitar strum, I remembered, brought back The way you might when your nostrils Catch the scent of baking flour, salt And water from the oven.
Except these weren’t warm memories From my family’s kitchen, cozying me On a cold winter Saturday. The chorus brought with it All those years stuck between Patch-work, faux-leather seats, Stuffed away in the back. Suppressed social scars flooded Back embarrassment so thick I felt my heart shiver, My shoulders curling as I tried To sink deep into my seat.
A few moments passed Remembering the horrors of Those hormone-filled hallways, Constant jostling of social status, Before I grounded myself Again to the steering wheel In quiet thought the rest of The way home.
I was there, laying on A mossy patch of rock As a brook gurgled by, Fresh with glacial waters.
Birds flew above earnestly, Clear conscience on spread wings. Tips of pine trees poked Out holes in the smoke-filled sky headed for the early afternoon Sun. Tree blossoms picked Up by the dense air twist Away in the wind to welcome The distant droning of Sirens, growing until the Forest itself slows down To turn its ear towards the sound.
This patch has seen the last Of its tranquil days. Echoes Through the soil reach their kin, Just a simple command, “Run.”
The dark, frigid waters Are waters dark and frigid. They’re cold, making Them never warm. It’s that way because…. Of something. Since I was a whippersnapper Ive known where I’m from.
That’s enough for me. I mean, why do I have to express Myself in this manner? It feels Like I’m just making incomplete Sentences to unclearly Portray how I’m feeling. Let’s be honest: most poetry We call good would probably Have been better written With longer exposition.
When the Phoenix flames Shine upon the rocks Of Gibraltar, shaking Their very roots to the Core, you will find my Eyes ablaze, carrying Full purpose.
The day is coming; A spark shall light red Razor-feathers and Cast beams bright Enough to blot the Sun’s Rays themselves.
And when meager times Arrive, I will not wither. I will be the candle which Never fades, my resolve The endless Wick, the fuel against Obscurity. Others will come Begging for faith; They will see my eyes Full of righteous fury, Bring about strength Renewed, and believe Once again.
Just out of my reach. Beckon the words to the edge of my lips.
Interloping thoughts: Bring me there, Where little beauties Are spoken in common Tongues, pains and Sorrows are swaddled Away in palm leaf cocoons, Sunlight splits into seams, Shining pillars bathing Undergrowth, coaxing Worries away.
Bland sheaths of wheat Aren’t grayed; they show So thick with gold they Summon memories of Ancient greats from the Collective conscience.
And, at the edge of it all, Was the one hammock floating In the light wind, where I listen to folding waves Gliding over sand before The undertow ebbs Into the turqoise reflection.
Love is the lie that keeps us alive. It catches the string of our shirt As we jump for the edge Of the cliff. Falling, the string will unravel, thinning all the while. Foam will curl and Spray; the acrid taste of salt water will sting Your eyes. There you’ll strain against it, yearning for the dark waters, beckoning you with their mysterious depths, all to no avail.
Love will pull you by That single strand of a spider’s web. A word, a look, A smile caught in mundane conversation; rose-colored lenses Capture the moment, Stretch it, sew it into Your memory. There Love will latch, Clasping your open Palms to bring You from the edge And into its ghostly Arms once again.
The fireflies flirted with the dark Giving eyes to the shadows. It was them who had seen Me sneak into Mr. Gramintz’s yard And swipe his golf club. A different set of flashing lights Now flood the driveway; I remember it clearly, The changing colors Striking my father’s face. In the corner was my shame, Poorly hidden. His child; cursed child. He stood, his legs broad trunks Anchored to the ground - A mountain would’ve moved Before he did that night. Cursed child; the worst child. He stood, not once Did he move.
I had broken a cardinal rule, But, I would’ve grown to be Cruel had I been thrown to The wolves that night. That night my father humbly knew, Without a thought for his own self, He would take the fall before I do.
