Welsh Rats
Sometimes you just have to turn up the volume,
soak in the Citrus, sing a little louder in the middle of the night, smile at how often others call you "hon," frown at how often your fingers find your face failing, bite your tongue over phrases you're fond of ("the experience of being a marginally weird teenager in a totally weird world"), worry over convergences and inevitabilities and scream as silently as you can, inchoate and incoherent as it ever was, a cloud of unknowing that chokes you in your sleep; the suffocated sound of being forever unseen.
If these hands could pull themselves apart and throw themselves away, they surely would. If this heart could fly, it would carry on its wings all the things you've lost or let slip away. If these lips could be anything more than plum slivers of a pear five years lost when these eyes lost sight of the prize, they'd have told you everything in all those moments they almost did.
If these words were worth anything, they'd be lost all along. We pray in the closet and wail on the stage, it's true, but at least you were lucky enough to try your hand at all. Well, whatever, my feather, I'm aware of my abandonments and enraptured by my inelegance. Underneath it all I still sometimes dream that we're made out of ether and I'm all out of sleep.
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