Love Leaves its Abusers
I am old enough to know that soon, sooner than I could imagine, my voice will start caving out from underneath itself when I pick it up to sing. That I will look in the mirror and see my age written across my face as if it were canvas with thick strokes of undrying paint. Drying. Eventually.
I am old enough to know that my mother's guitar needs to be returned to her because it has more in its hollow structure (filled) for her than it does for me. That I have been blindly selfish more times than I can count. That every day is a detailed account of what will be left behind. What will slip through my fingers.
Soon. Sooner than I can count to some number. I will be old enough to see the world slow down and see all my catastrophic memories turn into insignificant chalk marks in an abandoned school's room. With seats that don't fit much of anyone anymore. And how will the air be, then? Treacherous. And my lungs? They won't have adapted.
And these legs, like her legs, will give way from underneath a symphony of frailty. Voices that change to feign strength in times of extreme loneliness. Somehow escaping through that blanket of skin on bones. Miles and miles and miles and miles.
They are trying to destroy distance with time, but they've left behind the body.
All that. Said and done.
Apparently I am not yet old enough to forgive others for not seeing it all.
I am old enough to know that my mother's guitar needs to be returned to her because it has more in its hollow structure (filled) for her than it does for me. That I have been blindly selfish more times than I can count. That every day is a detailed account of what will be left behind. What will slip through my fingers.
Soon. Sooner than I can count to some number. I will be old enough to see the world slow down and see all my catastrophic memories turn into insignificant chalk marks in an abandoned school's room. With seats that don't fit much of anyone anymore. And how will the air be, then? Treacherous. And my lungs? They won't have adapted.
And these legs, like her legs, will give way from underneath a symphony of frailty. Voices that change to feign strength in times of extreme loneliness. Somehow escaping through that blanket of skin on bones. Miles and miles and miles and miles.
They are trying to destroy distance with time, but they've left behind the body.
All that. Said and done.
Apparently I am not yet old enough to forgive others for not seeing it all.