You are standing at my doorstep now
I open the bright pink gate and there we stand
Two souls open to knowing each other
And so it floods in
Our secrets and your veins protruding from your wrists when you sit on my bed and take your pulse because you’re scared
And as I rub your back it floods in
We weren’t cautious
And what have you done with my whispers and tears?
I’ve saved yours. Not on purpose of course.
The visceral memory of you is so suffocating it makes my bones crack
And I feel betrayed by my intellect which had spent all of its life convincing itself it was not an animal
Not this thing that sees the way your eyes droop at the corners
And your exigent laugh that cries out to fuck the world
Or the way my head fit so perfectly on your chest to take a nap and as your chest expanded to let in air I knew you were already broken
Your kisses placed along my spine and the way you reminded me to breathe
The way you reminded me to breathe…
5am and there I am in the streets of Compton looking for you
Like the crack rats I studied convincing myself I was superior to them because I could analyze and word them.
I could know them, but the only reason I could was because I was them. 5am and I’m convincing myself I’m not a crack rat while you’re convincing yourself you can conquer the world on your own
except there I am.
Fragile and in front of you, a mirror of you.
Were you afraid to be weak?
Was I afraid to admit who I really was fighting for?
And what became my medicine now poisons me
I should have known those eyes were a cautionary tale
When we were together I made it my job to memorize you
Guess I’m a masochist.
I walk through world with an image of you not in me but all around me.
And then the wind blows and I smell you.
Or I catch a glimpse of curly hair and suddenly my stomach betrays me
Or I see that red coca-cola shirt or I feel deep within me
Deep within me.
There you are.
I’ll salute you every morning and say goodnight to you when it’s dark
And the only ones left are those with
Visceral memories that betray them.
The pink gate
The artist hands that painted my sorrow.