They tell me different things at different times,
when I’m happy
they talk about sunlight and a universe of stars,
but when I’m sad
they describe the kind of things
that only nuns and mercenaries
have either seen or heard stories about.
Most of the time
I just wish they sang something indifferent,
something that didn’t matter
like the plastic cups that don’t break when they fall,
or the half-glances from stranger
who forget you the moment they pass you by.
Love always keeps things dirty,
the way grime grows between touches,
between fingertips that can barely reach out to each other anymore.
There was a time when I remembered how it felt,
remembered what it was like to feel hands
touching the hair on my chest
and nails down my back
and lips that part
to feel my own against hers.
I know more than I let on,
but I can’t stand the way people reply with arguments based solely on rhetoric, so
sometimes I keep quiet.
People argue even if they agree,
it always comes down to who
has the better reason to believe,
who has the stories that stand out in a world
where pain and struggle have become the last competition
and the only way we can prove ourselves
is to either have gone through more hurt, or
at least know someone else who’s done more.
I love being drunk,
it makes the voices accessible in conversation
while other people get to be happy
when all I ever do anymore is complain.
I think things will always get twisted in my mind,
reshaped like a substance
that can be molded into some perfect figure,
something left to collect only dust
until it breaks,
or chips away.
I’ve known the look of blood in my eyes,
it’s a sign of my own self worth
while I test this thing they call grit (that I don’t think even exists).
The way I see it
there will always be insecurities,
that flow of self-consciousness that leaks like sweat
as empty music repeats itself through different voices
and that last lingering feeling
keeps me awake, waiting for more.
Almost Made It
Trying something a little more comedic. It went over well on stage so I thought I’d share it here.
He cried so close to me
that it felt like he was in my arms,
it felt like I was hearing every breath,
every pause to breathe between every word
and the funny thing was this…
I have never been able to remember his name.