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Description
Honesty
seems like a lie right now;

your voice
feels like it’s here,
although it is an echo,

and I am scared
to talk about
the way this collective

of rum and endless phone scrolling
& a galaxy of holes in my bowels
& crying everywhere but in my
therapist’s chair

runs on
and on and on and on

back to you.

I don’t have a sweet word,
a lullaby,

to give to this child
glued to the small of my back,

hiding,

running,

from the taunting, blue moons
that are twinning with the sun
to stare at our naked flesh
and sear us into silence.
We are so white,
we are glowing.
I think it is June
but it’s snowing.
I can’t feel
the burning, for
I am so cold.

So,

I will write a poem
of a perfect, golden ratio,

and it may not be beautiful
but it will be true.

It may not be a healing
but it will be for you.

I’m leaving it here
for the hurt
and the unsaid words;

for all the damage
on the inside
no one ever saw.

I’ll leave it,
right here,

for you.

Description
Honesty
seems like a lie right now;

your voice
feels like it’s here,
although it is an echo,

and I am scared
to talk about
the way this collective

of rum and endless phone scrolling
& a galaxy of holes in my bowels
& crying everywhere but in my
therapist’s chair

runs on
and on and on and on

back to you.

I don’t have a sweet word,
a lullaby,

to give to this child
glued to the small of my back,

hiding,

running,

from the taunting, blue moons
that are twinning with the sun
to stare at our naked flesh
and sear us into silence.
We are so white,
we are glowing.
I think it is June
but it’s snowing.
I can’t feel
the burning, for
I am so cold.

So,

I will write a poem
of a perfect, golden ratio,

and it may not be beautiful
but it will be true.

It may not be a healing
but it will be for you.

I’m leaving it here
for the hurt
and the unsaid words;

for all the damage
on the inside
no one ever saw.

I’ll leave it,
right here,

for you.