I look at you and notice
The cells we’ve made
That contain us
Alone. I look at my hands
And wonder if they’re strong enough
To break my cell
And everyone else’s too.
A hand that prides itself on softness.
When I close my eyes,
The cell remains.
When I breathe for myself,
The cell dissolves.
Let me catch my breath for a moment.
Let me feel that I am temporary.
Like the melted wax on a menorah by the sixth night of Hanukah
I reheat to remelt
Actively letting go
Of your buildup.
Like carrying a preventative umbrella on a sunny day
I tell you my flaws before you kiss me
Because you never know
If they’ll want to know you
are they flaws?
are they flawed?)
I evade myself
To find someone better.
Perhaps in another,
Perhaps in a lie.
I dance into another
Heavily trying to be light.
But he laughs at everything I say
Forgiving of – or oblivious to –
The me inside of me, hiding.
Does it help
To be read by poems?
To be understood only through words
With no direct structure or argumentation.
A point made, muddled by your mouth,
As your lips form the words to comfort
The summer both Mama and our dog
Had a herniated disk in their lower backs
Both cried in pain and in sympathy.
We talked about death and quality of life
Which didn’t feel so different
There on our kitchen floor.
I sat with my coffee and a book
In the early morning
The dog already in pain
(Not early enough)
My hand resting on his panting head
Not comforting enough.
It is not easy to look into a dog’s eyes
As he is waiting to end.
He aged within three days
The cat stopped by to smell his legs
And for a second I thought they might work again.
We read him stories to let him imagine that they would.
I brought a mattress into the living room
To sleep beside the dog
With our heads resting close
Each breathing in our own animal way.
I’m not sure what was my
When I exposed to you this
Of myself, told to you unapologetically
I am myself
With a twist
A slight change of plans
A coding gone wrong.
Allow yourself to whistle as you walk
Towards your life
(Full of breath)