let me lean against your torso
as I fight the war inside my head,
let me rest it on your shoulder,
heavy with the pain
of the suffering, of the wails on the streets.
let me close my eyes for a moment,
and escape it, just for a second.
let me let you hold me
in your arms, as you tell me to breathe,
breathe softly, so my breaths are not
mixed with the cacophony of the world’s bullets, howls, screams,
laughs, sneers, coughs, screeches.
let me let you carry me,
head heavy from the constant aches,
throbbing pain that sometimes kills,
if not diffusing the fire within.
The same one that burns to scream,
from top of buildings,
to love, to hate, even to kill.
let me help you, through the multitude
of everything, as you trip over your feet,
bodies tangled, covered in blood.
let me help you, to fuse the fire within you.
I sigh as I watch you,
my gaze locked elsewhere, but
my focus on you. Don’t ask me
how I do it because it’s a talent
known only to the eyes of those
with lust, longing for something
that they can never call theirs.
You aren’t my typical type, I think
I do have one, and you don’t
make my heart skip a beat,
or make it beat twice as fast,
racing against emotions, time,
or limitations that came with the
definition of our friendship.
I don’t want you for that.
I know, I want you
because you are someone
totally out of my reach,
So close, yet so far away
There are photos stuck on the
colored walls that are now peeling off.
There are signatures in slam books
that’re now faded to the point of
there being only pen marks.
There’s a bit of myself in the
songs they now call retro.
I don’t feel as if that me exists anymore.
There’s clothes that’s seven sizes
too small for me.
There’s shoes that may only fit my toes.
There’s chocolates that they
don’t make anymore.
There’s memories that I’m still stuck in,
and they’re precious and pretty.
A bit of that I somewhat exists.
Moving forward, I’m thinking
about the past.
The photographs, songs, slam books,
are all I have now.
And these too would be memories someday.
All of that I exists, right now, right here.
I noticed a tear drop on the
corner of my textbook.
It has seeped into the page,
it’s amoebic shape not resembling anything.
Neither an animal, nor a random object,
like those clouds that I saw and found great delights
while on long drives
with my father.
Sharing, is not my greatest strength, never,
to anyone close, or to a parent,
or even my sibling.
That tear drop, did.
Never been a person to cry publicly,
never in front of a stranger,
I would never, ever, look weak.
Not to those who made me cry, anyway.
But that traitorous tear drop, did.
It announced to the world how it had
slid down the curve of my cheek,
sliding down to my jaw, hanging there,
just for a moment,
before falling gracefully through the air,
like an eagle who had just spotted its prey.
It wouldn’t come off the book,
it has created a mark, and how much ever
I tried to erase any proof that I had, in fact,
been crying, but that tear drop
stayed true as a tea stain on white shirts.
I, just turned the page,
in hopes of erasing whatever
proof I could.
There’s a bird flying overhead
stark black against the setting sun.
It’s graceful, against the
sound of the waves
lapping up on the rocks.
It seems perfect, sitting next to you,
head laid on your shoulders,
my leg resting on yours.
The bird’s gone, now.
The sun’s almost set,
the waves hit the rocks harder.
There’s a boat in the distance,
and there are flashlights everywhere.
It really seems perfect, while
I’m sitting next to you.
2/04/2017 day two.
There’s something about clocks
steadily, as if nothing could ever
be out of sync.
There’s something about the way
the digits align themselves,
spaced so equally, as if nothing could
ever be out of place.
There’s something about the way
the wheels churning in the distance,
soothingly, musical even.
There’s a lot about how they align
in the illusion that is time,
as everything seems to fall into place,
and it all just seems so right,
calming the tides.
If you ever happen to glance at me,
and feel a beat of your heart missed,
and skipped repeatedly,
don’t expect it to be love.
And if you still argue to the contrary
look into my eyes and tell me
my insecurities are loud,
and my (in)confidence louder still.
Try to tell me that
you love the way I laugh, loud and erupting,
deep cracking, and, so…
what do they call it? Unladylike, yes.
Tell me you like the way I bun up my
messy hair, and smile at you from across the room.
Or maybe the way I text you at night to say goodnight,
just to know that you’re there.
Or that my blithe disregard to the canon doesn’t work you up.
accepting is so tough, and maybe I don’t
like the way I’m stared at when I double-up,
or when I sometimes don’t put enough thought in my clothes.
For love is kind, and forgiving, and accepting.
If I cannot, would not,
embrace myself, why would you endure?