POETRY

The boy with the kite (i)

He drrrraaaaggggs
the fabric and
string behind him.

He promises himself,
It tastes the grass for now,
but soon it will kiss the sky!

Speed gathers in his legs, and –
(Sky and string won’t be his limit)
Air catches in his wings, and –
(One can be tethered but still soar,
free to romp in the playgrounds above)

If flight is a metaphor for freedom,
he bursts forth
and is free by proxy!
.
.
.
Eventually,
the wind disappoints and
slows,
and he drrrraaaaggggs
the kite behind him.

The boy, undaunted,
lives for this moment:
To do it all again.

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bodily struggle

1. The calories,
the fucking, FUCKING –calories
they tell me that I need 2000 a day
to keep my weight up
but
they don’t mention anything about
struggling to keep the food down.

2. Sleep is not rest
when I am haunted by a visual stream of
ghosts in my head.
The gravity of my bed
-traps- me in my nightmares.

2a. I straddle worlds of sleep, dreams and waking life,
while beasts straddle my chest,
their invisible weight
keeping me awake at night.

The exhausted self-
A bodily struggle.
A disembodied consciousness:

Whirring mind,
still flesh.

chemistry

mild alkali burns:
(i am careless with most things)
rinse/repeat does not soothe
the searing burn of love and loss

i peered at lab samples
searching for that one test tube-
-“you are not a fuck up”
(i spent half my life waiting
and the other half hoping)

they taught me to identify molecular structures
and when i find that one sample
with a

perfect configuration

i should draw graphs
plot curves
check for experimental errors

girls like you should come with a warning label:
feisty as sodium in water
rare as astatine
carbon makes up 18% of your body weight
but you withstand
pressure beyond your strength-
neither graphite nor nanofoam
you are diamond

you are a perfect arrangement of atoms
so i traced your curves
hoping that
you were my best fit line.

lover on canvas

I love like an artist’s brush:
fierce, purposeful –
and (with my poetry),
carefully annotate the winds of change
that wind-sweep wounds of
loves (un)forgotten.
No-
you do not understand this panic sentiment –
of how much you have stirred
the recesses of my (previously) unmoved heart

touched.

what is the point of breathing in strangers’ sheets?
anyway,
(your bones are) shaken,
(but your heart is) not stirred.

you can stumble into love-
but your skin burns from
all the fucks he could not give

you could do without
spending your waking life wishing you were
a little less touched and
a lot more moved.