that i cannot outrun the setting sun, that tomorrow is waiting outside my front door with a crowbar, that i’ll never know you the way they did back when i was first shepherded into your house in 2016: you should have seen the way i held my bitter tongue when i saw them bouncing on their heels to the music, cramming you into their ribs. sorry that i laughed at you, mouth full of acid, sorry that i could only picture you as an ugly, wretched thing.
all this to say: i was twelve when i wanted to grow up faster and twenty-three when i wanted to stop. my hands have dug too many graves - i know the gentleness of the soil after rain, so soft it’s sweet, but i still don’t know you the same way. is it too late? i want to see you in the gems of light splashed across the ocean’s skin, in the pyramids of overripe fruit at the grocery store, in the forgiving slope of a lover’s neck. if i dig far enough, will i find you? if i dig long enough, will you come?
i hold yesterday in my palms and i cannot forgive it. which is to say - imagine a pack of wild dogs, imagine a man with a gun; loving you seems a violent, corrosive thing, but i am too envious of the faithful. I’ll find you, i’ll split you open with my teeth, i’ll empty my stomach out, i’ll shift my bones around, i’ll make room for you. i see you here now: moss in a city puddle, mushrooms in a dormitory bathroom. life for life’s sake, in every possible way, sick rising to my throat. but i’ll try to look past it if you can, i’ll keep my hands soft, i’ll make room for you.
-(j)
