When i got tired of being the interesting one
There are many doors that i have been let through
their hinges like oiled bones gliding within their joints
holding bedrooms and kitchen counters and
your moms coffee mug your
brothers homework
the dog sleeping at the foot of the bed waiting for your
blonde eyes to come home
i havent got the time
to explain the algebra of each night
the angles it took to get where i am now
the calm of a storm i know will tear through me as i grow
each year these months go unquestioned they bury deep inside of me
the seeds of
dont trust me
i havent got a clean spot on me
i am the river Ganges,
I am the lye of burning bodies,
The sacrifice of flesh and fermentation the thick tongue you get when its coated in rum and regret the way your wrists would move like sickles in the sheets slicing away at the softest parts of me the muscle beneath just giving
like a sugar soaked plum
dark and red and firm under your thumbprint
there is no part of me that hasnt been rendered (holy)