Irrationality #4

i think i should say ive skipped
meaningless kisses on late nights that always
ended up in me crying because im simply only
good enough in moments
and only good enough for myself in fragments

my story was never pretty

let me say i dont want to write this
its the very first thing that hurts me hands
to type onto this blank screen

i almost skipped you and im not even a little bit sorry

i will think of you in silences
and i will learn to crush my feelings
into finer grains of sand
because i was never really good at being
a glass figurine anyhow

you had honest hands and a broken heart
i had neither but i always pretended we were the same
a secret thread of beauty whispered about
in silences (much prettier than the other kinds of noise)
i was delusional of course
i always am but you
you made me think of starlight in new ways
without ever having talked of the stars

we are friends now or so we say
as i walk away from you faster than i could think
of an excuse to tell you why i need to leave
instead i dont speak i let you revel in the broken silence
and i confuse myself at every turn

i was only good for you in moments and
i cant pretend that i am still okay when you say
you want to meet up at 2 a.m. and i am alone
if you are not here i do
not want you to be

I Don’t Want To Talk About It.

she stands close to the edge of the people and wonders
how she got so fragile
and why her shaking hands are clutched around a plastic cup
of a drink that burns her throat
and confuses her mind
that she doesnt even like the taste of

her feet hurt but her heart hurts more
as if cavernous holes decided to bury themselves within her chest
and she wonders how it is possible to miss
a boy she never even met
or long for moments she never experienced
or how she can stand in one place for a little
too long
and realize that she will miss
this
even as she experiences it

she swallows the rest of the liquid and shivers
a little as it poisons her body
she is conflicted because she never thought she would
break any rules
instead she has crushed them
and has created new ones
her feet ache but her head hurts more why
do they not tell you that
being yourself truly also means
accepting contradictions
of your very soul and being

she longs to be a girl who smiles without reservation
she longs to know what exactly it is that she wants
to rid herself of the voices of indecision
to rid herself of the complications of never knowing
and she cannot decide why she will never feel complete
and she cannot decide why she is not happy in this place

in the superficial she has
never been happier
or more excited about her potential for living and breathing
and continuing the journey that they say has just began
but in reality
she sips warm beer that she wont finish
and wonders why her smile is always as fake
as the glossy pictures she tapes all over her room
a facade on white walls
and a facade on pale skin

I Continue To Be Fascinated With Hands

I. The lines along them tell the stories of things unspoken and never known. We like to think we know our futures, how could we ever know?

II.  They hold the door, they pause, they are unsteady. Too many nerve endings, too many nerves. Doors of course to his future, things unknown just like the lines on his hand.

III.  They are the hands that held his moms when he was a boy, they were once smooth, they are no longer smooth. Wrinkled like the Earth. Wrinkled like the sky. He cannot get those smooth hands back.

IV.  More honest than his face. Faces can lie too easily. This boy can put on a perfect smile but his hands still shake at the lies.

V.  They hold her hand, because this is honest. The faces lie because she is scared and he is nervous. They don’t shake anymore.

VI.  They hold tighter. The fingers intertwined.  She is so small compared to him, her fingers so dainty. He holds her and feels powerful. She holds him and pretends she isn’t so alone.

VII.  Capable of life, capable of taking life away. Too powerful and yet, cut and bruised. He punches a wall and his hand breaks. He punches a person and they break. He can push away worries or create them.

VIII.   Waves of goodbye and waves of hello, beginnings and endings, no lies of course. These ten digits are not capable of lies.

IX. Holding and dropping and pushing and pulling. They are of his own creation and his means of life.

X.  His hand will never have a ring. They are hands only meant to be alone. The girl and the boy pretend they are one. Maybe hands can lie.