#statueous

the world is disgusting the world is disgusting the world is disgusting.

you will learn that the land you hardened feet walks on every day was snatched from underneath the lives of others. you will learn that the words you believed in high school during history class was nothing but fiction but more so propaganda. you have been brainwashed to believe your superiority, normalcy, legitimacy, authenticity. but you are nothing more than thieves and murderers, encased in a sticky, sweet web of lies and falsities. 

you have lost my trust, my respect, my willingness to engage in everyday conversation with you because i cannot speak to you without hearing the echoing silence of my ancestors whose history i do not know. the gaps in my memory can’t be filled with text from a history book because my history wasn’t considered history. we are stories that are expendable, unimportant, throw-away trash that came to build this country from the ground up and then were expected to disintegrate into thin air. our bodies don’t work that way. you cannot wish my presence away. you cannot blow my bones across the ocean back to the exotic plains of Asia you cannot duct tape my mouth shut you cannot speak over my shrill and submissive voice you cannot stop my bounded feet from marching you cannot stop the power of my fist from punching the very existence of this cruel, undeserved country.

i do not want to be here. but it was your laziness that demanded my presence, your laziness that shipped my family oversees to till the land on your farms, to build the iron railroads across your (stolen) country to wash the clothes of your home, to wash the dishes, to raise your children, to mow your lawns, to pick up your trash, to fucking raise your children. to raise your children and expect them to be better but they grow up and become mirror versions of you.

all wrapped up in light blue silk, and crushed velvet. I am a pale sun covered with paper-thin lace--that is me, lounging on your dirty, grainy bed. I've got the almond eyes, blinking up at you behind delicate lashes. then, tell me i'm pretty all undressed and bony under thin covers and thinner sheets. you say that i am a girl threatening to fall off the face of the planet. i say i'm trying to reach heaven. grab my hand, don't let me drift off.

here it is, the fantasy you have of me but i'm real and the fantasy only exists when you're asleep. but tell me i'm pretty when you're awake and the girl you're looking at is still a pale sun covered in paper-thin lace but she's not soft and muted, but angry, raging, sending solar-flares of terror and anxiety. she has the almond eyes but also the flat plane of nose and mouth and chin. will you still tell me i'm pretty when you're hovering over the bed to find a space between my thighs and when the girl that was once flying away is instead stuck to the ground--now, you will tell me that i'm trying to be like quick-sand. 

I think I love you.

it's funny because I had so much I wanted to say

before my fingers began plucking out my heart to place on a platter for you.

But it seems sometimes it can go from full to on the pumping edge of bursting

from hearing your wood crackling voice on the phone.

So much distance, but I want to reach my voice through the never ending telephone lines and pull you in, make the storm quiet, the sea content.

I know confessing these thoughts will make you cringe, complain, push me away when all I want is to be nearer, closer, so close I can unravel you even more than i've already have.

new edges and holes that I'll willingly get cut by, and fall through I don't care as long as there's more, more, more

this is the mantra of a love-sick child, but you said once that childishness was endearing

dear, I want to be able to reach out and smooth the porcupine pins that sting the flesh of my fingers when I get close, please don't get defensive--I love you

But I know nothing will can happen. nothing will happen. i am the cloud that will drift next to your sun forever while you're enveloped by the existence of her blue sky.

please, don't look at her. I don't know her and I don't want to. 

But if her laugh and her smiles bring light to your world, I don't want to stop it, not matter how much I wish I was your solar eclipse if only just for a minute, a second.

As if the road from houston to chicago was as worn as the sky.

Is there a blue that will make me miss you less? Because words have become mechanisms that I can’t string together, anymore—and I can’t speak like I’ve unlearned the dictionary of our lives.

Here’s a Snow White story: I’m choking on the words that spill relentlessly out of my mouth. What does love even mean, and why is it in every single one of my declarations about you. I choke on (love) your eyes, I choke on (love) your lips, your smile, the whispers of hair on your naval. I choke on (love) that feeling that I get when I look over to you and the sun gets a little brighter.

Am I a masochist for this?

It is half past midnight when your hands pry my legs apart. Cold fingers touching cold thighs touching cold back touching cold sheets on the bed in a guest room in your house. In the middle of December, it is cold, and there is no warmth radiating off your body, like the books say. Breath comes out like fog from your mouth. 

The lights are off and I can't see anything. Nothing but blackness and the back of my eyelids--so nothing. The lights are off and there is no blue or yellow or white moonlight washing over the curves of our bodies, like the books say. There is only blackness and the ragged huffs of breaths against my neck.