it was in the short decades, in which
the night sky shone the brightest
that I was the most terrified of the dark—
the river beneath it.
doubly folded over by the
aches of memory,
tending to a half-broken arm
in a dark bathroom stall.
no use in a wild heart
if you refuse to use it.
underneath the blinding darkness
consuming street signs with
quaint names.
cobweb clutter on a rusted chain,
handlebars, defunct brakes.
streetlights that seem so crushing now
refuse to dim in image,
they spear through my
being, a total eclipse.
I have been given new flesh
as quiet compensation, crowned the
prom king of unfolded laundry
and missed calls.
indebted to a murky waterfront,
reflecting worldly fears
off of two sets of naive eyes. stumbling over
unsure words and an iceplant cavalcade.
falling flat on my freckled back;
insects buried in backyard stumps, crooked concrete
floods the pedestrian path.
I used to think that one day,
the crosswalks would let me barrel
into the street, signal just for me.
hat sore wrists were no longer,
red hands would go unseen.
instead, inaction—paralyzed
on a cement island, cars shaking
directionless metal signs
as they pass,
I stare past,
looking to the curb
that corners the sidewalks
of my past.
I fear I am something;
just something. and that
you are someone.
or everything.
I feel for a bruise wrapped
around my neck,
the one you didn’t warn me
you would leave.
I feel about my body just to
find a wreck;
perhaps I am searching for
something to grieve.
I feel for the scars,
raised on my legs,
raised when you didn’t
warn me you would leave.
how suffocating.
how rich—
the late air of early blood.