There Is Flight In My Veins

Don't ask me to hold it if you know that I'll break it again.

So this one goes out to the rainy spots of California, the boy with the crooked laugh who throws his head back like the cocking of a gun, and the rest of the softly lit memories that are waiting for me to return and fall in love with them, again. I didn't forget about you.

I have dreams where my hair grows long and my teeth fall out. An eye for an iron, it makes the whole world look like heavy hotboxed madness. There are times I’ve dragged the ocean into my bed and am sleeping in sand from my ears to my heels. You ask how I slept and although my body was seashell and sandpaper spooned all night I say fine to be polite -now that’s madness- My tongue and mouth do things I can’t account for like lie to you, say other people’s names in bed, and read bad poetry to children. I think my teeth are trying to run away from that chaos, one dentin baobob at a time. And maybe my hair too is trying to make a run for it, every split end at war with itself, pulling so hard there’s nowhere left to go but up and out. You told me my eyes were on fire that night, you were close. If we stay very still and let them glare, pressing against the space between them we might be able to start a blaze. An eye for an iron can cause quite the flames.

You are insecure and frostbitten, a gas mask of miscalculated happiness, asphyxiation at it’s finest. You wear melancholy just fresh enough to push you through the day, but never ripe enough to swallow.

I am trying to learn not to write broken, not to write lathered in melancholy and waiting. My limbs brought me here today, and my legs have yet to buckle beneath me. I cried for two hours, and tore apart the kitchen, but there are wars and newborns and everything in between. I am trying to teach myself patience, but I'm impatient and don't tell others when I am hurting. Instead I eat more honeydew melons and joke about the weather until I tear myself out like a hurricane. I am trying to learn not to live broken, I have been oiling my joints and my edges twice a day now but they still scrape open doorways and the underbellies of strangers hearts. I ask them for forgiveness but they never answer. How do you say sorry with your hands? Write. I am trying to learn not to write broken. But it's what I know best. It is all I have, and all that has me.

Pour me open mouthed like your father’s whiskey. Take all of me, Regret me, Then want me some more.

Voyage

Time Part 1

Time Part 2