(no subject)
i was born over this bridge this river the water & the first dusk. dripped my birthright down this city streetlamp to sidewalk till i stumbled over this doorstep & two sets of stairs. so i settled in, cross-legged & calm, i folded a long line of paper birds poised for the shock of the air on the other side of the window. in here i keep the stove on all winter & shed layers like lies. naked in the bathtub watching the ivy grow through the cracks in the walls -- exposed brick, exposed skin -- this is what the body remembers. lighting candles against the thunderstorm & watching the blades of the ceiling fan in the flickering dark. here if you listen the walls they can whisper & this, this is what the body remembers. & when you found me here you kissed me like you could stop the water rising around our sinking ship. but you never could & every time i cut a cord you tried to tie another one around my neck. but not now, no, not you not this could keep me down. not anymore. & i won't keep you from going under. so when you drown in your own sorrows, i'll be the stone in your pocket, i'll be stretched out palms to the carpet, teacups & tealights, my folded paper prayers staring down the weather & i will not remember you. how many deaths does it take, darling ? you made me the moon to your tide but still you fought the phases changing. after me, you knew all along. after me comes the flood.