December 2018
365 strands in a rope
As the sun slowly sinks in the west
I pick at the braid with my fingertips
As far as I can recall my lived experience has always been
inseparable from my masturbatory dependence on memory
This isn’t histrionics, this is history
Here lies the first time you were brushed over
Here’s when you were embarrassed, unnoticed, dipped in crisis
Oh and don’t forget
the pickley taste of those selfish words you lapped up
Part of a nutritious breakfast
Every moment a crispy cornflake, a monogram stitched thoroughly and painfully into my dermis
And then You, so bold, strange, and beautiful
flashed your smile and cupped my face in your hands
during the summer that never came
And You is all of you who make me think that
maybe every relationship in my life isn’t so optional
especially the one I share with
the salt of the earth on my tongue
the square of light in my eye
While the weight of the rope sinks me
your grasp binds me to the sky
And on the 365th strand
I finish the packing that I’ve been putting off
Tears in the basement
Love in the attic
