mother, don’t you know?
the boy with the golden
irises doesn’t smile anymore.
he’s packed, and there’s something
heavy in the bags he carries
underneath those eyes.
there’s no such thing as darkness
in the city of angels.
there’s no fear in death when
you welcome it.
perhaps the sun will thaw
him, perhaps the cold has
nothing to do with why he’s
so numb.
you were eleven
pounds of limbs when
i scooped you into my arms
beneath the flickering
yellow lights that reflected
off urine-stained linoleum.
i thought i was rescuing you.that night as you walked
into the apartment
for the first time, i wasn’t
thinking about paris or
the lust in my veins
(the lust pumping out of
my heart). you cried,
scurrying into a corner
when i accidentally stepped
on your paw. i feared you
wouldn’t let me near you again.
you were so slow to let
the hair on your back go
down.the days are getting longer,
the skies bluer, and i am
dreaming of paris
again. you follow me
to the bathroom, waiting
patiently outside the door.
you follow me throughout
the house. wherever i am,
your eyes are there. brown
and gold nebulas.we fall asleep
and i feel your heartbeat against
my feet. i want to squeeze you
so hard sometimes.
twenty five pounds,
you are an anchor following
me around. i can hear
london calling me now.where do i go
to escape your eyes,
little lamb?
what have i done, falling
in love long before
i have seen the world;
making home in twenty five
pounds of limbs and
pawprints in the snow?will your eyes follow me
to london and paris? to cobblestone
cities and languages
i have yet to learn?your small heart an anchor
at my feet, mine is filled
with a lust to see every inch
of the Earth’s skin.
you say the whole
world looks a little
crooked.
my head is on
the wooden floor,
staring at the bowed leg of
a chair, and i guess
it is a little
twisted.i had a dream last night.
we were all vampires, living
in my apartment back at
school. when i woke up
everything was the same except
mom and dad didn’t want to
suck my blood.i guess the earth is a little
bit crooked, tilting
at twenty three point five
degrees on its axis.i’ve been dreaming about
death a lot recently. it’s funny
because when i’m asleep i am always
the one being killed, but
i know that what
we’re trying
to kill does not have its own heartbeat,
but rather has taken
over yours.sissy said something
the other day that made me want to cry:
that the life has drained from your
eyes. sometimes
it’s hard to look at the beautiful gold
they have become.
i hate that color.
i know what it means.i guess you’re
right.
the world is pretty warped.
i think you can see it better than i.
is it scary? is the world
a little straighter when
your eyes are golden
like that? does it look
a little brighter?
i shouldn’t have let him
close the door.
everyone knows nothing
good happens to young girls
behind closed doors
and yet i wasn’t thinking
about freedom when i heard
the lock click. i was all dolled up
for the camera.i heard your voice in my head,
saying you wouldn’t let
him touch me.
but the door closed and
you couldn’t see
where his hands were sliding.
i was
just another day at work.
just another photoshoot.
just another.i wonder if
he knows my body
has become a shrine to
the emptiness
he thrust within me.
i wonder if he cares
that i’ve flinched under
every pair of hands
since.i wonder if he remembers
my name.
we are chiseled
from clouds to be
strong yet fragile. we must
weep, but we must
comfort those who are
weeping also. our lives
cannot be any
messier than the kitchen counter
before having guests over.
we must always make
a good impression.
we will be everything
so you don’t have to be,
and we will still be weak
in your eyes.
ripe fruit may bruise more easily, but it is infinitely sweeter.
a hug is
not a luxury when all
one hundred and thirty five
of your family
members live in the
same city in the desert and
you’ve called your mom’s
best friend ‘aunty Ani’ since
before you knew
she didn’t share the same
blood.
we exchange a
currency of kisses in
this microcosm of handwoven hotplates.
fifty of your closest relatives
come over for Christmas, and yet
the house is much too quiet
without your uncle here this year.
love is not lacking
in this house. it is thrown
around like loose change.
it is in every crevice
between the kitchen tiles,
behind every child’s ear. it is
something you feel long
before you learn to define
it. it is
in every molecule of
air that engulfs us.
‘i love you’ is just a verbal expression of an emotion. it is not a promise that they will not hurt you. it is not a promise that they will love you forever. it is not a promise that they will never leave. it is not a promise of anything.
sometimes i think about all the people i could have fallen in love with if i had just been brave enough.
i’d never in my life so much as dipped my pinky in a glass of wine, but my god, i was drunk on you. i was the kind of drunk where you can’t string together a sentence for the life of you and yet you reach for the vodka anyway. you were my first gasp of air after holding my breath for three years. i consumed you hungrily; you let me depend on you.
Silenticel 