R. L. Valor

Sadness tastes good, doesn't it,  written in words that smear across your fingertips. Young boy, say goodbye to your mother she'll miss you from her hollow home.  Be brave out there, be strong. You'll be home soon enough.  Sweat tastes good, doesn't it,  dripping down your muddy cheekbones.  Young boy, mistake those sweat trails  for something more familiar.  Wipe your face out there, be calm. You'll be home soon enough.  Blood tastes good, doesn't it,  dripping from your wounds  like poison.  Young boy, sink your fingers into your hollow home.  You were brave out here, you were strong-- but sometimes, that just isn't enough.

I hope there is a universe where we are still dancing socks still sliding against the hardwood floors curtains still drawn, snow still falling. I hope you play that old Taylor Swift record the one with the sad songs that make you feel like forever is forgiveness and heaven is a place among the stars. I hope you smile and the dim light falls across  your lips, eyes, your hands, skin. I hope we dance through infinite tomorrows through every thought and sorrow I hope that forever you stay.

I don't want to write sweet don't want perfect verses and cotton candy clouds picture frame love and fragile, glass heartbreak.  When I knew I loved you I screamed it-- burst through seventy pages of notebook paper in half a sitting. And when I realized you could never know I fell speeding toward earth faster  than icarus crashing through the surface and  embedding myself six feet under. I am so close but so far. The closest I have come  to touching the stars  is the cracks hidden in your  constellation eyes. I just miss the stars.

so Prometheus fought and he wept and he burned for mankind and in return, we fight push against the hollow restraints of Pandora's box wishing for a home greater than the cracks between our brittle clay bones hardened by sunlight so we fight and we fight  and we fight after all  we learned from the best.

you sat across from me, coffee steam rising up and circling around your shining grey eyes. you said “okay, here’s an idea. i’ll ask something and you answer with the first response that comes to mind.” so i nod and agree because why not? you lean forward, elbows on the table, looking at me intently. first question:
 “what are you most afraid of?” my first thought is your name but despite the rules of your game i do not say this out loud instead i stumble over my empty words and tumbling thoughts with an answer of “um…the ocean?” you laugh and fire off another this time, you say “what about your best memory?” honestly, i don’t have one yet but i have a feeling that it will be made with you. but despite the rules of your game i do not say this out loud  instead i throw out something stupid a memory of a sunset or something. this goes on for a few minutes until you ask the final question. “What Do You Care About The Most?” my first thought is your name but despite the rules of your game i do not say this out loud

I found the truth in your lips, when you whispered-- barely audible over the darkness between us-- the keys to a melody  I'd never heard.  I  held on to the notes.  They were all I had.  And today,  when I awake from my dreams and remember you don't speak to me anymore, for the first time, I lie.

thought: i'm driving through my old neighborhood with the highbeams on the way i talk about this place, you'd think there was nothing here thought: and of course poetry is pretentious. why do you think i write it? and what's so wrong with that? thought: and do you ever wonder if Persephone is drowning in the prayers you send her in the form of lullabies? thought: do you ever wonder why she said goodbye?

I. The drive out, when the wheels slid on the wet pavement. You looked at me, wide eyed. I cried.                                                       II.  The rising sun, visible from four windows in our apartment. It was blinding, but I could never stop looking.                                                       III. Your bowl, left out from a neon night drenched in darkness. The milk was still cold when poured it down the drain.                                                      IV. Blue shoelaces, which came undone at least once daily. You refused to replace them. You swore that they were lucky. They weren't lucky enough for us.                                                      V.  The curtains you bought me for my new apartment. You gave them to me the day I moved in. They've been blocking out the light since Tuesday.                                                     VI. Tuesdays used to be your favorite days. Are they still?

you hide the rebellion beneath your fingertips-- the same fingertips that are meant  only for needles, for cloth, for pots and pans. You watch  as your fathers, your brothers, your husbands leave their fingertips meant only  for shrapnel, for gunpowder, and empty bullet casings. (Their fingertips mirror your own.) You stare  when the men underestimate your sisters surprised to find them draped in the disguise of a fighter. (Her fingertips are your fingertips--covered in blood and stitches and immeasurable pain.) He says you and your sisters are too delicate  too easily broken too weak to hold down a war. But you know differently.  You look him in his eyes, open up your fingertips, and give him your rebellion.

They told you we were wrong the tainted voice of a lost generation cursed to doom their world into the dirt but before you decide look into the mirror. What is truth if not surrounded by lies? What is a curse but a blessing in disguise? My love,  look past the cracks in your constellation eyes- We weren't wrong. You have been one of us all along.

they didn't tell me that the glow in the dark stars on my ceiling wouldn't be bright enough. instead, they tried to dance around the subject. how bright do you need them, they asked.  where are you planning to go? i don't know that yet. but i know it will be far away. i've grown sick of these old stars. i want to carve my own path home.

if i pour my heart out i'll have nothing left