‘What did you do?’

Used to be the question I asked every day.

And then we’d stay awake talking till our cerfews

crumbled and cracked and I’d listen to the past

rush through my windows as I drove on empty

streets.

There’s a golden sugar soup sticky in my gut

but I don’t know how to draw from it anymore.

It’s gone cold and I can’t feel its warmth.

I wonder if it will spoil and spill on the floor.

Trapped in nostalgia, a pistol with no trigger.

Ironically, growing up feels like a shot in the dark.

Bleeding out, wondering how to fill these holes.

It is bittersweet.

‘What did you do?”

Became the question I asked every day,

expecting the answer.

It dried out my eyes and dropped my stomach.

It wrapped chains around my neck like a pretty

piece, but it brought me down so my forehead

kissed the floor in exhaustion.

Genuine is a axe.

I ran after mountains.

It took me a moment to see they were running too.

I’d climb their summit and realize I was back to

where I started. I’d rockslided the finish off the

clock with my broken hands. Leaving the face

broken for misery to come and digest.

‘What did you do?’

Was the question I asked that day.

Blood on it’s dress, I watched what I knew preform

a dance of malice before me.

It pulled me into it and I cried in circles.

It was beautiful, and I wanted it to know that,

even if I wanted to sit down on taken advice.

But it frowned silence in between its lips and

chewed on shame and it couldn’t shake the

bones that followed it everywhere

So I took my own. And tossed away the endless

puzzle. And began to find places where I fit.

And I threw a few fits along the tracks as I

switched and switch backed.

But I took my fingers and dug them in the sand.

Determined to be surrounded by time.

And in a still, I smiled because I knew the sun

was shining on my face.