#abcb

it follows me from place to place,

melodic and enshrined,

i shudder when i hear its call,

the lyrics left behind.

you wrote a poem of it once,

and how we sang its words

to different tunes, all summer long,

just us, guitar, and birds.

back then, i thought those nights might cause

my hatred to contract -

the irony has not been lost

that, instead, in fact,

it's one more thing about that song

that makes me want to cry-

though diff'rent, as at least this time

the problem? clearly I.

it follows me from place to place,

through trauma, friends, and work,

"today is gonna be the day"

is ref'renced and i jerk

back upright, i don't want to think

of all this untold woe.

but it follows me from place to place,

people tell me i look better,

say it’s clear i’m on the mend,

expect me to be capable

like it’s fixed and at an end.

people tell me i look better,

when in some ways i am worse-

time has patched the scars all wrong,

i’m down gearing into first.

people tell me i look better,

but waking makes me cry,

i’ve blacked out every night this week:

the truth is, i still want to die.

people tell me i look better,

and what i can, i hide,

a phantom walks in place of me.

sometimes i am very small

and scared of all around,

i feel hemmed in by giant walls,

and curl up on the ground.

at other times, i’m big and strong,

unstoppable and wild,

life is not so hard, i think,

upon the street, a little flower,

baby pink and dying.

she stops and stares and picks it up,

before long she is crying.

the sky is pale but fairly blue,

the stem a pastel green,

the clouds are grey and speckled white,

her coat just brown of cream.

the flower, soft and delicate,

feels like a beating heart,

though cleaved from bigger, grander things,

still beautiful. it's art.

she holds it as she walks along,

and keeps her even pace,

her tears remain, she drops the flower,

says she will leave no trace.

the words you said all echo round

inside her little head,

she cries not for the flower itself:

what do i do with this new information,

with the knowledge that you will if you want?

if i leave it alone, it will fester and rankle,

if i put it to bed, it will rot.

i will rot along with this new information,

i can feel myself heading to sea.

i can’t blame you for what it’s caused in my chest,

but i’m submerged by the feelings within me.

you didn’t give me this new information,

and i doubt that you would if you chose,

but i’ve been told nonetheless and my chest is sliced open,

blood leaking right down to my toes.

i don’t have the context to this new information,

and i don’t think i am justified

in proportioning blame and anger at you,

after telling you everything died.

i don’t know what to do with this new information,

or the fact that your silence is deadly,

i don’t know what to do with any of this,

round and round the garden,

dodging sticks and rocks.

you can’t see what’s not in front of you;

don’t be baffled when it shocks.

round and round the garden,

playing childhood games,

the stakes are higher than they were;

it’s not just calling names.

round and round the garden,

line the bears up in a row.

analyse their every step -

swathes of ocean

i cannot cross.

uncertain outcomes

where all is lost.

swathes of ocean

between us two.

you lean into him,