Sta.sh
in a season of wavering will
and ripe regret, I was born
too old - into a fragile world
of butterfly feathers and
springtime secrets, tied tenderly
around hollow hallucinations and
carefully called a "dream"
they promise you things
when you are too young to
understand the monsters under
your bed are really fragments
of you, left to disintegrate
in the dark. they say: you
will touch the world, you will
know the stars by name, you
will be our deliverance from
all the things we were not
you will be strong.
but they don't know, no,
I am a yard sale:
I sold my heart to a boy
with lilting lies and eyes
that looked human
I lent my bones to an
unstable night
I whispered my wishes away
down empty wells, and only heard
the shallow echo of myself
I sent my lungs down the
river – gasping for forgiveness
and I gave my voice
to the ocean, in exchange
for a little sleep
when they finally see me, I say
with a sawdust screech, I am
not all these pieces of me--
I have to believe somewhere
behind the complex of a mirror
and fluorescent flutters,
there exists a version of myself,
untouched--
a glass skeleton, unscathed, and
living out its life for you.
(no one ever warned me that stories
were better told untrue.)
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they promise you things
when you are too young to
understand the monsters under
your bed are really fragments
of you
were my favourite
thank you so much!
You're welcome!
You really brought everything together with the second to last stanza. It really made me just stop for a moment and think.
when you are too young to
understand the monsters under
your bed are really fragments
of you, left to disintegrate
in the dark. they say: you
will touch the world, you will
know the stars by name, you
will be our deliverance from
all the things we were not
this is exactly what i am trying to say in everything i write. it's what growing up looks like to me. (maybe i'm just crazy, i don't know)
your words cut me and touch me and pull at my heart. thank you.