I forgot my place in the days that close me in on both sides.
Where sunrays creased like shirts
and reflections came with blueprints
that can be seen in our signatures
and heard in our honesty,
where frailty never completely shatters
because there’s a solid strength in the quiet and the lonely.
Those distant wall flowers
towering over themselves
speaking in tones that go on
and over our heads
and I’ve spread myself too thin,
thinly walking at tip-toe paces
trying to retrace those parts of myself
that never used to pause before they leaped.
Instead ideas have seeped
into my thoughts
that’re covering my good intentions
until I became just another name and email address
on a long list of people who are wanting,
but not doing something more.
Because on the shores of belief
we only let our toes touch the water
and like squatters, we hide until it’s ours.
Where the busy hours climb clock towers
firing at the dots to make spots
of actual lives that left stains in the days they’ve lived.
I want to become my own confession,
because my life’s been an obsession that I’ve lived,
but it’s like the words tie me down
from the things I need to say
and in the mist of this morning
I can barely see rainbows through my clouded eyes
and crowded expressions,
but I can still stand longer than you can run
and I can run faster scared than you can mad
and I know that doesn’t really make sense,
but fuck it, it does to me.
So let me take this,
let me feel this fear and slit every wrist in this room
until swimming becomes the way we do this
and through this maybe more of you will come back
with your own posters tac’d on walls
in the kind of places where all the blood in the world
only made us the same colour.
And in favours we reflect on all the fingerprints
we’ve willingly washed from our bodies
and in sorrow we might borrow
enough energy and strength to keep these days moving on
into that magic realm of
what comes next
and those “fucked-if-I-know’s” and “hope-you-find-those”
Where it sometimes feels like the lucky have all already been chosen,
and are being kept in another time,
where catching the bus is easy
and saying the right thing at the right time
happens without even trying.
I feel like I’m up against the world
and my bare hands are being skinned
every time I wave, or shake hands,
but I still want to say hi to you although I’m bleeding.
I’m losing myself right here in-front of you
and I’m dying to have the last words I say
to be breathed into a room
that actually wants to hear something more.