What is hell? Scratched records and dented
Fenders shined silver by cicada summers.
Back roads dripping in starry nights hung by
sobs caught in throats. Her universe
was made up of one soul fraught
with an infinite blaze of inhales trapped
in a withering ribcage. And I begged you to breathe in,
breathe out, breathe in, breathe out
breathe in, bat your eyes, smash
the bottle, bite pink flesh like the burn
breeds interlaced fingers, bleed until the bath water runs
burgundy, and pray like the space between nail
beds and riverbeds isn’t easily collapsible. But
you swore to me sunup to moon blinding bright that yours
was the solitary hum swerving amidst ink-stained
stationery and hazards blinking in bean fields. Darling,
I cried; atonement isn’t simply acquired through static
Screens or bile-soaked sheets. Connection is believing
That all hearts beat between the same brittle bones
for all of eternity. Love is seeking out another who feels
suffocated by the same prisons as you. But now, seas of bottomless
mouths gargle tongues and razors and sauteed renditions
of smoker’s lung. Gone are teeth on satin shoulders. Sheet
metal splinters a collarbone that once cradled
blurred blonde whisps and rumpled blue t-shirts.
Broken are your nails sanded to the quick by
cracked veneers. Blink and you miss the kodak smiles.
A swaddled skin so soft now vulnerable to the cut of
Sleet slicked streets and whip lashed wind swiping eyelashes
From swollen cheeks. Was he the sole source of bursting
Seams? Or was he simply a substitute for voids left bit
By blistering bit: Saturday essays splayed across your lap,
Sunday strangers kneeling at the bench, blue beacons of neglected
Olive branches, booming knocks echoing through brick-built halls.
When will you learn? Someday, those cracks must be sealed
Not by a boy who tucks loose strands back when your palms
Are buttered with baking grease or who switches the bedside
blades on to disfigure nighttime figments
Sneaking by in smoky shadows as you fall asleep.
Your emptiness is not a result of desolation, but the allusion
Of innate brokenness. You are not the grit of the sea,
Designed to be covered by a blurry blue. You are
Sparkling diamonds hung below crystal cut jawlines. You may be
Crushed by the ceaseless weight of charcoal waves, but below
The burden of the surf, jewels more precious than the shimmering sun
Wait to sparkle in the palm of another.
(This poem was used as audio behind my original choreographed piece. You can find my work here.)
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