Gravity

When I was little, I used to dream that I could fly.

Well, not fly,

but hover above the earth,

toes just skimming the carpet,

arms stretched wide,

because everyone knows you have to be open to catch the wind.

 

When I got older, I learned that I could do more than just hover

I learned that there’s a universe waiting for me up there

and I learned that there can be another universe right here

I got the same feeling from you that I did from the stars

You were shining and bright

and for all I knew,

stretched to the end of time

you stretched to the end of my conscious

What’s the difference really, when you’re 13?

 

But nobody warned me about the orbit.

About how when I see you in the supermarket, my feet are going to leave the ground,

it’s involuntary, but it’s going to happen every time.

And no one told me about how I’m going to spend 5 years

hovering

always on the outside,

just another planet you’ve managed to sucker in

and boy do I feel like a sucker

 

Nobody warned me about how

when I find out you have a girlfriend

that I’ll get so dizzy I’ll throw up

and will have a migraine for days

I can’t look at the sun without seeing you

Nobody warned me about how

now, when I come home,

I feel like an intruder in my own town,

that I expect to see you everywhere

 

Nobody told me that years down the line, I’d suddenly remember

every nice thing you said

every little sign that something was up

that I should’ve done more than just hover

 

Fuel to the fire

houston, we have a problem

I would say I’m free falling,

but you can’t fall in space

 

Nobody warned me

that the orbit is the loneliest part of infatuation

because you’re always at an arms distance

can’t get too close or I’ll get burned up

Nobody warned me

about how the gravity of you is nothing

Compared to the gravity of goodbye,

 

Nobody warned me

that once you finally break orbit,

you’re just left drifting.

 

Nobody warned me.

Advertisements

My Industry

He was a magician

and I was enchanted by the words he could speak.

 

Rivers, flowing in my skin,

bounding along my ripples and stones,

his touch is a refuge.

 

Forests raise on the back of my neck with his whisper,

mountain ranges break in my throat

the rolling hills are my tongue.

There are hurricanes in my fingers,

the entire earth is inside my chest,

the infinity of space is my greatest love.

 

But you

 

You are my industry.

 

You reek of civilization

Of homestead and engines,

Of a thousand manmade stars,

all at the flick of a finger.

 

Your skyscrapers rise,

the white picket fences,

the nine to fives,

the quickening of my heart

matches the quickening of your head:

the fast pace of a thousand places to go and people to see,

all wrapped up in your thoughts,

 

It’s no wonder you can’t sleep.

 

Your blood curdles with oil, and you go,

leaving unyielding black tendrils,

latching onto everything you touch.

You found your plot of land,

and seeing as you are human,

didn’t hesitate to hold on tight,

 

This is mine.

 

Replace my roots for yours,

stretching into the sky.

You blot out the horizon

until I can’t even see the stars.

“You don’t get to tell someone their feelings are wrong.”

 

Isn’t that what you told me?

 

When I opened my mouth to explain

why it terrifies me

that you built a house for two

but only you can get inside?

That you stir up my wind,

level the space between my hills and valleys,

wreck the foundations of who I found myself to be?

 

If my self-esteem were a coffin

your words are the nails.

 

You look at my wild, and admire it.

 

But only from behind a window.

You marvel at the wolf song,

but from behind closed doors.

 

You say

“come inside, it’s safer in here”.

 

But how can it be safe

when the wolves howling are my ambitions?

When there are lions in my words,

and snakes in my brain.

How is it safe

if the bitter wind is my regret,

my indifference

the sting of salt in your eyes?

When my ocean is literally

eating away at your carbon steel heart?

You mistake love for rust.

 

How is it safe to have a hurricane in your living room?

Dearly Departed

It’s not you, it’s me.

 

And I know there’s that cliché,

but you have to understand:

nothing about me is cliché,

and I guess that was part of the problem,

but as always, I’m serious.

It’s not you, it’s me.

 

I was uncertain.

Indecisive.

But the thing is,

I was so worried about losing you

that I tried to hold on tight.

I was so worried about not being enough

That I became too much.

It’s not your fault that you ended up drowning.

 

 

It’s not you, it’s me.

I am scared of being “this close”,

but terrified of being this close.

 

 

I have abandonment in my city streets,

the graffiti that people left on me

screaming

“Stay out”

“Run away”

“Don’t come any closer”

 

Rats make home in my veins, drains,

and my heart has trouble pumping them through.

My buildings are condemned

and my heart, the grid of broken pavement,

Don’t step on the cracks

Or you’ll break more than you understand

Because

though the phrase is cliché

I am not.

 

It’s not you, it’s me.

Dear Sunday

Dear Sunday,

You, your stormy blue eyes.

I stand in the crowd, the darkness matted to my face like a mask, trying to peer through.

You’re pain and beauty, scars and brilliance, and the coming rain.

You had such self control, poised and ready to fly away. But you fell apart for hazel eyes that shone in the light of the radio, and drinks at the table by the window.

Somewhere along the way you got lost. You drowned yourself in sunny disposition and the smell of aftershave, and eventually, you realized that after all this time, you don’t know how to swim.

Imagine that. You, with the very ocean in your veins and salt within your skin, don’t know how to stay afloat.

It makes sense why you stayed in the shallows for so many years,

hiding.

But I see you now. I remember who you used to be:

A cloudy day in the key of F. Your hair piled high on top of your head like a crown, your words were few and insightful, though not always important. Your laugh is either thunder or gentle showers, your mind a haven or a personal hell, and

that is your life-raft.

Fuel to the Fire

The words I’ve been chewing on are burning my mouth
and I hear you cry out
for equality, but somehow I doubt
that you realize what it really means,
because while you’re screaming for you,
I’m fearful for me.

Because, something has changed,
and slowly but surely, it’s silencing me,
but still I restrain
myself, and what I think
because for some reason now, I can’t disagree
and my opinion isn’t valid,
because my religion makes you mad, and
quite honestly,
it’s not fair.

It’s not fair that I
have to worry about losing my rights
because a few people spoke to hurt you, and I’m
sorry that it happened,
I am,
because we are all human, and
you did nothing to deserve it.
But did I?
Do you see me for more than what I am?
Because if not,
you’re no better than them.

And hear me out for a moment:
Is it possible that the hate toward you, you’ve reciprocated
and you don’t even know it?
God knows that I’m not saying that it’s only you,
but you’re the one who has chosen
to participate,
and since when did hate combat hate?

In a world in flames,
I keep hoping for water,
and that we’d stop naming names, and pointing fingers,
because for a time of progression,
we couldn’t be farther
from progress.
And maybe oppression is human nature,
but we’re making this harder
than it should be.
We have forgotten
that we are supposed to love
and we are supposed to be united.

In reality, we are far from it,
when you feel judged,
and I can’t pray in public.
While you say equality, I say peace,
but society thinks they mean two different things.
Brother, Sister
know that I love you,
so let’s take a step back from the hate
before we become it.

-S.A.