thirteenthwind
You know, like that one time when you ran off to Columbia and took every reminder of who you were, with you? You know, like that time when you drove away into the ether, and the only thing remaining behind was a pair of hula hoops, duct taped together with pretty little patterns. You know, like that time when we were together at five-thirty in the goddamn morning inside your vanlife van and my dad drove by looking for me because I'm "only" twenty-five and I ran because god forbid my parents catch me with a stranger twined around me at five-thirty in the goddamn morning and the last words I heard you cry were "Find me," but since we are thieves we never return what we stole and time doesn't come with a receipt anyway.
God.
I can't remember the last time I looked out from between the walls. An asylum - this mental institution, this place where white is a reminder that we're bruised up inside. You know, you think the walls have eyes? It's just the way the light reflects, really.
You're seeing things again, just like me, darling.
This is my love poem to no one,
a fractured
piece of fantasy
wherein I claim that you're not actually real
this reality
you pretend to be
is just compromised immunity
my fragmented
augmented
segmented
place to be
where I can exist free from expectations
or regulations
when I can just be me -
but you keep on intruding
my lovely.
I'm afraid for you, sometimes. I think a little longer than I should, and I remember the way you looked the first time you told me about having been to jail.
The fact that you were scared to death of going back.
That you didn't think orange was your color, and how even having been there, just briefly, it changed you. A black spot on an otherwise glowing child.
I wanted to hold you, then. I wanted to tell you, it's okay, it'll be all right.
But you looked at me with your dragon's eyes and you said, "I'm never going back," so strong, so proud, I couldn't look away and I couldn't move.
Little bits and pieces of your face flow by in my mental slideshow. I'm caught up in the way you look, the way I remember you looking and the way you might look in the future.
I'm spending time with your past-present-future selves all at once in this letter I'm writing to you and wondering how your slideshow face will look as you read it. Transition, fade-to-black between happy-sad-pained.
The End.
Baby, I'm worth it -
But the real question is if you are.
Because I remember this time - not so long ago - when maybe you weren't. You weren't worth the night of revelry, the crazy self-hatred that came along with a moment (or ten) of weakness.
But now...
Call me crazy as I sit up at night and wonder.
Hey, baby.
Were you worth it?
I still don't know.
Oh, a class act.
You're not the kind of person who could walk through the doors and be known all at once, are you?
You're like me.
You see, we're the kind of people who walk around in black with dark shadows under our eyes because we know things others don't get, yet.
They'll understand in time, but until then, we'll categorize our angsty teenage selves as what we hope we will be:
Misunderstood.
Because if they understand, then suddenly...we're not as important as maybe we thought.
We are two separate parts of a rope, you and I - two sides that coalesce in the middle, and when your wavelength starts out greater than mine, we'll inevitably disrupt one another's lives. When we meet on our way down our own little streets - only one way to go home from here, then BAM, smack into someone else. That's when you and I will have to figure out if we're ruining one another's lives or making something greater than the sum of our parts.
You are still that same whirlwind that came to visit me once in a far off land. You're the storm rider, storm shaker - you're breaking down my walls with those grey-green eyes like sea foam turned angry under a slowly blackening sky.
If we had another moment, maybe I'd break, but that's what's so wonderful about the single touch of eyes in a crowd - that we never have a chance.
You wanted to catch up to me like a thunderstorm, like a sea storm, like the high winds that captivate my heart. You wanted to push me off to the side of the freeway and make me have to take cover, but I have to tell you lover, that I'm never going to stop fighting back. I have my survival kit on my shoulders now, a fortress around my heart, and you'll never pull that apart, leave me lying on the sideways again. I'm sorry, boy, but this isn't a toy - my heart isn't yours anymore. So take yourself, my typhoon lover and take yourself away.
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writing since 2010 · 302 entries · 266 days shown up
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