#thisispoetryproject

Until their love became it

The first time our eyes met you scraped my heart and I let it bleed like wind sprinting through the trees. Your eyes were red and my body black and blue, cloaked in your shallow dress your words and influence grew into obedience. The strength of a thousand angels could not force your torso passed your hips and you have filled me so that my dry soul drips. Love not the creation of man or woman, for it is the flesh that oozes blood when worked to exhaustion; it is the heart with which we feel the most pain that finds light. Humans are nothing more or less than the molds we cast around ourselves and the chains we place on our ankles to prevent ourselves from walking too fast. Fear is the black of all bruises and blue is the hesitance in our guts. The butterflies must be tamed and treated like lions within a circus show. It is more often the softest blankets that cause the most suffering. I prefer to sleep without comfort because a new day rises and I refuse to miss a single moment.

These eyes are my prison.

I am often blinded by the absence of my desires and forget to remember those blessings which I have not asked for and yet still receive. How little we remember, how quick we forget. 

Twice you pressed my head to your chest and said, “You can do anything, son.” Each morning I woke up feeling the weight of failure and depression; I hated the boy who stood so short in the mirror. I despised the curly hair and fat cheeks that stared at me each time I walked passed a mirror or one of those long windows bordering a sidewalk. Once, while crossing the street, I thought of taking on a truck face forward. It was the only form of courage I knew. I wanted to write a letter explaining my actions: life is cold; the demons won’t stop visiting my dreams; I can bare the darkness possessing me no longer; the voices I hear tell me I am useless, that I will amount to nothing; I am sorry for hurting you and anyone who loves me, if anyone actually does. Once, I slid a knife across my wrist. Today I am thankful that our poverty prevented it from being sharp. Twice you told me that you loved me as I was before the doctors locked me behind bars in a mental institution where those same demons watched me sleep from the shadows on the ceiling. I can still see the writing on the inside of the drawers. I still remember that black boy who stared out of the window with delusion, searching for “Jacob” or whatever the name was. If I think hard enough I can feel the tightness of the bathrooms, only a little larger than those on an airplane. And when I close my eyes I can recount the moment the facility announced that the white boy who wore his pants too low had a razor in that same bathroom. We all told him not to do it. Today I am thankful he didn’t, on that day at least. I didn’t understand why he punched the walls until his knuckles bled until I did it myself. The more we bleed, the less pain we feel, for pain from the heart is heavier than a scab or a scar. Twice you told me that I can do anything. Twice you told me that I can be anyone. Twice you told me that I was smart enough to conquer the world. Twice you told me that you believed every word I ever uttered, no matter the size of the goal. Twice you told me to dream. Twice you hugged me as I washed my tears onto your shirt. And for all that, mom, once I will conquer the world and place it in your palm.

And so it was.

I found my soul in the mountains on a dark October night. Two years ago, when I first discovered the stars, the moon shone down so bright on the hood of my car as if to forcefully remove the dead skin that covered my scars. The exposure damaged me like sitting in the hospital’s x-ray room naked. But it also healed the wounds I hid for millenniums. Time passes slowly under the knife. I will never forget the feeling of the cold, brisk wind as it kissed my face. Nothing has ever made me feel so small and insignificant; nothing has made me feel so alive. Under those shooting stars is where I made my commitment to live; there are too many bodies and brains and not enough souls. I arbitrarily wished on over twenty, not fully believing in the power of nature. Each of those wishes has come true in its own right, I am positive, although I can not say how. Life works in mysterious ways and anyone who claims to know its eternal truths is a liar or a guru. I am neither. What I know is only what my soul explained during the minutes we met in those mountains: Life works in mysterious ways and anyone who claims to know its eternal truths is a liar or a guru.

Hoping that one day they will be forgiven.