On Being Blank

On Being Blank

The blank in me is heartbreakingly heated up, sizzling its fire through my guts, and they said I was all these things after I couldn't argue my side anymore. They didn't know me so well or the blackbirds that fly furious at my heels, propelling me toward your hands. Those are the palms whose roads I traverse, whose sweat consoles me. I am there when you turn the talkative door handle and let the wind rupture my name, bitter wind-- it takes me through your selfish sleeves. Hear the echo of shadow in the tortured hours between dusk and dawn? This light is yanking me like a tug of law, of which I want no part in. I'd be fine to rest my head in your hook of your neck for the length of this season, hunger do what it may. Space is all that troubles me now, with its expanse and freedom. I can tell you now, freedom is not my thing. I reckon, your reckless now that I have become blank. When we meet again, we will make new words for all the old words we despise, and we'll both be blank and so the space will be much less dense. I'll continue to wait behind the certain curtain, where I peer through to you. As the wind picks up, perk up your ears as I whistle happy-go-lucky for you, even though my insides are confused wings with distorted visions of home. When you dream, my blankness isn't blackness. When you dream I am not a fleeting like the dull ache of loneliness, thank you. Isn't blank a much kinder word than dead? Let's be blank instead.

Within the Without

You're in the wind like the gust in my heart
sweeping up the curtains of black hearts.
My eyes can't wait anymore, they blow rain.
Little marble cup of you, I know you are not.
Tweet birds say sweet things like you did
and I try to be every good word you said.
One day, in the wind maybe I will read
all of your letters and ache like the swords
of guilt and regret and sad piano keys
your son strikes like arrows through the middle.
I hear your laughter explode out of my mouth
you dance your funny dance within the without.

Dream X

Why is it when I dream of you, you still carry a crutch or a bat, or my smashed up heart in your hands? Last night you were on the stage, half mad, melted talent, slippery under the beating bulbs. Heavy handed. My eyes are jaded hooks in you. You were shaking your weapon at the light shining brave through the window. You didn't want the alley cats looking in. I resented how easily you careened from once feeling to none. My stomach still bubbled with your poison, witches brew theatrics. I hated the way I could feel the impression still left in my body, from where you had crashed into me.

Truth bombs

Dare we hope,
not later-
now. We hope.
We shoot the arrow
not outward, but
within our centers.
We cross and twirl
body-bloom. Dare
we hope to be
our best, now
and not lie.
Tommorrow may not be
better.