Wednesday, June 18, 2014

dust

i am drained
of yellow, of smirk, of water.
dirty water, dirty hands- my smile was
the epicenter of a 400 degree oven in mid-June but now my
mind sits like a Labrador at the front door for the relief of kind hands,
tell me i am pretty, tell me my bones look as they did
seven hundred years ago when we were made of the same
calcium, sand, and sawdust as the other.
those years you held me with your particles and we saw arms as 
Berlin Walls, never close enough, laughing
at humans and how they could never touch 
like us.
do i still make your heart race as much as before either of us had hearts?
tell me that i have aged only in
wisdom and not in wrinkle.

i am beginning to hate most of my friends, i am beginning to
ache for trees, for forests, for giving things,
for undeserved generosity, ache for the friendly wave of traffic, for a smile
that has nothing to do with the hem of my shorts. 
something for nothing, sometimes, i think i moved 
to the wrong city.
remember that book about the fish who
flayed himself to give his beauty to the others? 
i don't think i've ever been beautiful but i've surely been flayed-
yeah, i've been 
vomiting love, consistently, for months- 
[the world, an ungrateful child who eats with it's fingers and throws the
bowl to the ground after. dear God, 
i am so tired]

guilt that i don't have more to give, that my well has been 
exhausted for anyone other than strangers, they just
keep letting me down, 
you whispered once, when we were bone dust, "i am
not like them, i want nothing from you except your mouth, occasionally" and i 
still believe that

[i can control how much i need you but i am a slave, a rowboat to your storm,
when it comes to wanting you
as we were
700 years ago-
dust, selfless dust.]

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