lies like a pretty boy’s hands

Smear the brownie under the bower’s knee

to sweeten the pain of the stance.

My elbows are spikes, nailing me flat into reality,

hinging me up and down like a doll flailing in dance.

Are we real?

My hips hold the secrets to the universe,

swaying when I waltz,

causing lurches of gravity on a moon–

at least, in my head they mean more than bones and sinew,

in my mind there’s meat on these metaphor’s bones,

and these lies like a pretty boy’s hands

still make me believe someone else’s skin

could be a safe place to touch.

To land.

To find my balance on the rocking moon of a heart,

and settle myself into what might be real.

But then,

do you remember

when you said

my tears would keep me company if no one else would?

When you admitted

the world was folding in on you like a flower,

floors a sinkhole to sickness,

ceilings and walls caving in to kaleidoscopic mirrors?

I just wished

the flower would rebirth you

one day

out of the earth.

But I cannot unviolate the past.

I cannot unhear the screams of cicadas

louder than your last breath.

And I’d choose to believe

these eyelids close like waves on a dry shore

because I don’t mourn your passing anymore,

but I think I’ve just taken flight again

afraid to touch

even water

even the moon

or a jolt of gravity

since they might hinge me to reality.

***

find my published book at this link (ps thank you for the 5 star review Sarah_DM, it means a lot:)