Tag: world

Tricks

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I looked into the mirror
to see someone else staring back.
The encounter was too quick
for me to get a name,
but she seemed familiar.

I noticed her stubborn chin,
her easy dimples as she
smiled in passing,
her dark outline.

I tried to follow, meeting only
glass and plaster as my
hand went to tap her shoulder.

She seemed lost, trapped even,
as if her world was not big enough,
as if her world knew nothing
of what she carried.

I wanted to help her,
but I can’t seem to travel across
the divide separating us.

If I see her again,
I’ll be sure to cry out.
But for now, I look into the mirror
and see nothing in return.

Shower thoughts

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I sat in the tub this evening,
feet pressed flat against the wall
under the tub spout.

I haven’t sat in the shower
since last time,
but that was a different tub,
in a different home,
in a different state.

I watched as steam rose
and water fell against my body.

Tiny droplets caught on my shins
and stomach,
pooled in the crevice of my thighs,
left trails down my face,
and soaked into my hair.

I thought about the world,
about blood draining from them —
abruptly and unknowingly —
to filter through shower heads
and cleanse bodies riddled
with ignorance and shame.

I can imagine the room smelling
metallic, metallic and sweet.
The steam would clog the vents,
sticky, and make any mirrors
appear as if a scene
from a horror film.

I also thought of you (and you)
as I stared at the green rust
surrounding the openings
in the shower head — of course,
I thought of you (and you) for
different reasons.

I sought comfort from the plastic tub
and metal fixtures.

The water weighed on my chest
like a thousand docking ships,
and the room felt bigger and bigger
as I stared off into the swirl
of the unknown.

I sat in the shower,
like I did last time,
but this was nothing the same.

I felt no gash across my head,
nor tear in my lungs.

The words for this poem
flowed, drawing me from a stupor,
and I leapt to catch them
before they followed
the water as it
drained
away.

Reflections

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I watch her stare through the glass,
only, it’s not her physical presence
that draws my attention,
it’s her reflection, so peaceful
in comparison to her anxious frame.

I wonder what your reflection
would say about you. Is it nervous,
jubilant, or perhaps a little melancholy?

My reflection always seems sad —
dark circles amplified
under fluorescent lights,
the lines of my face drawn without care.

If we only saw reflections,
would that make it easier
to have compassion for strangers?

I would see your truth,
and theirs and theirs and theirs.

What a beautiful place
the world would be,
still fractured,
but oh so much clearer.

Coming undone

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Phrases keep lingering in my mind,
simple, yet obfuscating ideas
about the existential things
all young poets strive
to dissect
with their words.

‘Life is simply a death worship.’

It’s heavy, existence
in this world.

‘There is so much said in the silence.’

One could point to the
character flaws of humanity —
the ignorant and bitter
ruses of power,
the battles of
pessimistic optimists —
but none of that seems to matter.

‘Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.’

How do you do it?

‘The heart carries scars.’

How do you see
the world without
faltering?

‘Stuck. Like glue.’

These phrases seem small,
non-consequential at first glance,
yet I feel unsteady in their wake.

‘The world is coming undone.’

Again.

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I know I’ve said this before,
but it’s all too much.

And I know I will say it again
because that is the way of this.

The world crumbles in my wake,
and I can’t make sense of it.

I’m struggling to build a woman out of dust,
but the pieces don’t align.

Destruction reigns
as I look over my shoulder.

I’m scared;
I’m lonely with everyone.

How I wish I could share
all of this with you.

I’m not really sure why
anymore. I mean —

I’m cradling myself
at night.

I’m loving who I am
separate from you.

I’m holding my hand
when the darkness comes.

I’m facing the demons
as I always have — alone.

Yet, your name
drips from my eyes.

It’s not sweet,
but also not sour.

It exists in a plane
all on it’s own.

Maybe that’s why
it’s hard to pull away…

Yet, I don’t want to
reach for you anymore.

At least,
I know it’s not fair to.

And it’s getting easier
to breathe

or better,
to catch my breath

as your name
skims the curve of my cheeks.

The world is all too much,
and you,

you will never know
any of this.

Too much

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I don’t sleep at night,
not anymore.
Too much has occurred
for me to find peace
and rest.
Too many have fought and died
and died
for me to have this blanket,
this pillow.

I stare at the ceiling,
my personal distress feeling like ants
compared to the wasps others deal with.
I think of you
and you,
and I wonder if you sleep soundly.
It would be like you, and perhaps you,
to do so.

But the aching in my chest
aligns with the one in yours.
We are witnesses
without mouths to scream.

I see the abyss.
It’s dark, but warm,
the stench unclear.

If you, or you wanted to,
we could link arms
plug our noses,
and plunge into the belly,
letting the unknown consume us.