i find more comfort in streetlights than the cold hearth of home.
will there ever be a day when my words mean enough for you to consider that maybe (just maybe),
i needed something more than your words, skin, being
to see a purpose in my words, skin, be-ing. because before i bought into your broken narrative of my perfection, i accepted my futility, but you, in your attempt to fix nature,
tore apart the remedy of oblivion that i have fed myself for years before
does it take stained bathroom tiles
to convince you
that it’s not
i will always remember
the year i stopped trying
to breathe in water
and you stopped trying
to swim on land
i still don’t know what love is
because despite it all
the setting sun will rise
the dream of the illusionist
dictated that i hold you higher up– higher than
your summer of ’17 when you were a lost soul
searching for something that was worth
settling down for
I once held on mere words to prove that I
was worth the fragments of your thoughts that once
fell from the depth I once saw on the pile
of forgotten list of lovers you liked
to keep away from the pens of poets.
Ink and paper were all I could keep from
the cold burning of life, death, heaven, you–
forever in the stones of yesterdays.
You were dressed in white.
And I swear, at that moment, I knew you were going to be the death of me.
Romanticism was dead, but I wanted to tell myself that I could believe in something more than the emptiness of our liberal lives.
You scared me because your light blinded the void.
Yet, I loved the contradiction in your very being– how you never claimed perfection despite the clearness that was in you. You never claimed a higher moral ground. I liked that. I think morality is an illusion. I loved how salvation didn’t mean anything to you.
I couldn’t save you if I wanted to.
I don’t know how to save myself.
The answer isn’t love, love.