difference of opinion
it’s been said
in more languages than i
can speak fluidly
that i am not quite…
normal
that i drown
in the things
others drink to
forget about
but if
they had seen
unstigmatized the light
in these eyes they
might think differently if
they had read the
hurt between my lines i
wouldn’t have had to
spell it out
in broken glass if
they had listened
when i said i
think i’m dying there’d
have been no need
to call the paramedics but
me i don’t think
feeling is a thing
to be floodwalled
i
think “they”
is just an ugly
numb.
zen
watching the dawn
drag itself up out of this
utter east from my
hotel window, i
open my eyes to
the truth that though
my skin and soul are
across the world
from the ring of barbed wire
strangling the hollow
inside my chest,
my demons are
no farther
away.
glancing over my shoulder
there’s a small blonde girl
sitting in the window
on the third story, her legs
kicking the old brick
haphazardly as they dangle.
*
from here
she looks insignificant,
an oversized old grey
sweatshirt all but swallowing
everything but the randomness
and those legs.
*
maybe she’s thinking of jumping,
headfirst onto pavement;
sure it’d be a clean dive
if angled properly.
maybe because she was dying
already, from the stale haste
of her daily perceptions,
flat-lined perspectives
and want of fresh air.
*
or,
maybe, from above,
just sitting on the edge could be,
would have to be,
enough.
perspective
The man at the counter
sells dreams
in exchange for breaths of air:
for an hour’s worth of 12-cycle-per-minute
minimally deep inspirations
he’ll hand over all possible worlds;
a single gasp will get you
a glimpse of the stars.
while I tally up my assets,
considering;
he leans in at me with his bright eyes,
persuading, confesses
that he’s behind on his mortgage:
People just don’t look up at the sky anymore.
