I never was so good with friendship. Some part always meant to be, but the words were awkward, the outcome a shoe-lace I couldn’t stop tripping over. I was always a loner, uncomfortably closer to myself than social orders.
I fell in love with ideas but never the woman in front of me, let her touch but never make me bloody. My heart is frozen, and only holds water in a solid state.
July will be sweltering, but I’ll never be melting, because I carry so much of last winter’s weight.
I was never good with children because I’m still a child, feeling broken, defiled, wishing my mother had named me something else. I wish my father had felt something like warmth and my siblings didn’t see me courting self-harm for sport.
I was a terrible villain, even worse at remorse. Couldn’t have been a superhero because I’m the dark horse, heart half-smoked and discarded over the side of your porch,
always high on
the long shots but
never seeking recourse.
One day, I will
stop keeping score
of my spiritual abhorrence,
paper thin faith
so porous, you might hear any
chorus of redemption
evacuating doors off
and my derelict
need me no more.
But I’ll live on, in her fringes and a wood box, next to her bedside with a lock she never opens. But inside it, ashes of my imagination, a strength that always seemed to come in phases,
a thousand pages of contradictions to support her own
wars of attrition when she recovers
Darling, this was