I was sixteen when
I told my mom
“I think I’m a sociopath.
I don’t know how to feel,
without acting like a mirror.”
And she laughed
as she told me to pray.
I was twenty one when
I told my mom
“I think I’ve found love.”
And I could hear her cries from
Five thousand miles away.
I was twenty three when
my mom told me,
“You were never quite right,
of course I had my fears.
But God perseveres.”
And I laughed
irony is overwhelming.
My naked body did not inherit
my affinity for well kept secrets.
It tells stories like your drunken tongue,
and wears it’s battles like a uniform.
You can see where the skin has stretched
from when I finally began to eat.
And there are colors like permanent ink
under my eyes, because I still don’t sleep.
There are silver lines and bruises
my fingers inflicted before we found a truce.
If a picture is worth a thousand words,
a body tells stories with ten times more.
But I learned when I was fifteen,
no matter how loud I hear these things scream,
when you share your body like a poorly kept secret
they only have eyes for what they want to see.
You used to drink freshly brewed coffee at 2 am when your inhaler ran out. You said the heat and caffeine was a natural remedy, for when your lungs stopped cooperating. And the cigarette between your lips was a welcome, if not necessary irony.
So I mean to say I am like a luke warm cup of coffee at 2 am when your inhaler runs out. I am like the cigarette between your lips, the welcome, if not necessary irony with nothing to even it out.
If we called a man overboard
every time I lost myself
we would never make it out of port.
We have a new weekly tradition.
An opportunity for you to purge
the anger and hurt I have caused.
You run words down my skin,
like razors digging in.
And I will accept it,
we can call it atonement.
I say I am rough around the edges,
because eventually all of their hands
begin to feel like sand paper.
They say I’m rough around the edges,
because their tongues are chisels,
and how long can it take to chip the rest away?
We’ve said goodbye
in seven days.
And the hardest
was the second time
I saw your face.
I will apolgize
for the rest of my life.
so I’m sorry the air
is easier to breathe when
I’m alone on my own two feet.
But I guess it feels like
I stole the air straight
from your chest.
I still feel the need
to take care you.
And that’s hard to face,
when I’m finally trying
to take care of me too.
for every goodbye
you weren’t listening
close enough to hear.