Forget sleep,
—————— I’ll lose my grip instead.
unsteady nuances – the water boils over and over, until it storms off, it is angry.
I run out of gesso, the oil cracks. Pale acrylics then come to fill the void.
When the hardest part is over, the hardest part is over.
A crashing wave once said to me, in the larger scale of things, time is fluid.
———————— everything is fluid.
You can cannot swallow poetry
rest assured, your fork and knife
but poetry will swallow you whole
under a Tuscan sun, in another life.
Ghostly maps will hollow you
the void will ask
what is yet to become of you?
of love?
Yesterday I woke up as a stale breadcrumb,
sitting on a rusted platter in front of a little boy.
His hands aching of charcoal,
his snot dripping, shivering, as he stared at me, wishing I was the side of wings the man at the diner tossed away in the garbage, so casually.
The only thing separating them was a 2cm glass window. My conscience can’t catch a breath, ever since I woke up as a..
this afternoon I asked the old woman at Ann Sather to pack another box of frosting for the cinnamon rolls, I’m not sure why this glaze brings me so much comfort, perhaps because it reminds me of the first time I made cinnamon rolls in 2015… to impress you. Exactly five years ago we were all setting our milestone goals, “where will I be in 5 years?”
It’s five years later now, here we are. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve moved, and although I hate missing all the birthdays and weddings back home I still love Chicago, what do we do? If I knew better, I’d break my goals in half, strategically, so I could be here, there, and everywhere. But I can’t, I could never have. For now, home is where the cinnamon rolls are, I guess.
is a brief term for the quickest reality check. Perhaps my biggest feud will always be with how we treat sincerity like it’s the extra nickel the cashier shoves down our throat – the one we drop on the floor on our way out the store anyway. The hardest pill to swallow is the one on my nightstand; a bottle of unrealistic expectations that put everyone on a pedestal, but myself. Labeled “just something about the human condition.”
We practice to shrink ourselves to accommodate others, as if sincerity is a dish only served to the ones worthy. Did no one ever teach us
that if you can’t reciprocate the genuine, then you could at least
spare us the facade
of unnecessary comparisons to a journey that was never
even yours
to begin with?
