I know my poetry lately has been rather ordinary, but I’m just so excited that I’m writing again, after months of drought.
I always thought trigger was a strange word.
A word that held the promise of destruction,
that when unleashed would throw us back
into the walls, panting, bleeding. I always
thought that it was cruel to give a name
to what I spend my days running from,
for fear of riven skin and open hearts.
A word that you never forget. A word
you spend your life fearing. A word,
like a bullet in a gun.
There are nights that I think of you
as the little girl with pigtails in her hair,
and a nervous lilt in her step.
Nights, when you are scared
and you cannot find the way home,
and I am silent in the backseat.
And the mornings you pull on your kilt
and look at the way your thighs touch, and think,
I am two parts of a whole coming together.
I am watching you cry into your earl grey,
and your mother hovers by, and laughs,
because what else is there to do but break?
I can hear you now, still, echoing through the wind.
The way you said your name is the way
I fall asleep: quietly, and dreading the fall.
I’m looking for strings,
The fishing line I know
that must be wrapped around
my bones, slicing through
my flesh every time I
move. The fishing line,
so thin, that cuts through the air
To a puppeteer’s
Están moviendo lentamente,
escuchando el pulso del mundo.
You know, there are things
I want to be able to write.
Like falling in love.
Like dying and breathing.
Like knowing what it would have been like
if I had never met you.
And how different I would be,
for being okay, for standing upright
as a girl, for knowing how to breathe
without remembering you have tasted me.
And I can’t.
And this is a shitty poem
that is the closest I will ever come
to writing about you.
Because it will never not have happened,
and I will keep on keeping on.
I am trying to capture your hands.
I’ll take softened clay in my palms
and press them to yours, take away
the wrinkles like a key
that might unlock secret treasure chests
by the sea.
And it’s as if you’re flowers
falling to the ground, and I am spring
just around the corner,
when you will grow again
and learn to walk
on your own.
What do you need with the wind,
when you’ve got laughter in your heart,
and a smile that lights the kindling
and sets aflame the world?
I’m swallowing words like they’re painkillers, and yet there’s still an ache lodged deep within me that I cannot quite excavate.