...and grab your towel

Wish Fight

the clouds line up in the sky, forming a perfect bowl- I blow wishes into it knowing they won’t attach to shooting stars and they won’t come true.

it’s hard to strangle hope with one hand behind your back, fingers crossing themselves, sore in their tangle.

you’re enduring, not living, full of dread, mute with sound, heavy with intent of a purpose.

a Styrofoam cup on the side of the road, and you will not rot after your contents have been used up.

you’re a broken cigarette- imagining the lungs you would fill if only you were intact, an excuse if I’ve ever heard one.

you were perfection and I picked out the most beautiful rose petals for you.

I put them over my eyes in an attempt to make your world smaller, alter your shade of blue.

the air turned purple, sour like the knot in my stomach, and I asked for understanding, while you turned into wine.

I wondered how long it took you to start moving your feet up and down. did you get tired with the churning

or did you put your brave face on, spin out another thread of the lie you must not lose track of?

I brought tear drops to a fist fight and you abandoned empathy, when you shoved the knife in, and asked me to describe the taste of the hilt.

and I’d like to say you regret it, but the clouds catch the wish that the clock told me to make and I play church bells so loudly, hoping to drown out the sound of the door closing with your exit, knowing that God is the only one who can fix this, watching all of my hope spill out when you used my trauma so that I may better understand your pain.

and, yeah, I may wear it like a red letter, it may never come off, but honey, I was yielding in your anger, I was there when your vowels started to stutter, I blocked my eyesight for you, turned my head as you began your journey, listened while you tried to convince yourself that there wouldn’t be a crash