Were my chest made of oak,
\nor the past centuries, the seams of a
\nlibrary’s great enlightenment, or the
\nstrange atmospheric feeling of love, could
\nI be opened up easier?<\/p>\n
Could I splinter in our embrace and
\ntaste the moss of your lips and with that
\ncorrectly set the family table in your mind,
\nplace the fork here and the knife there,
\na salad plate, a glass of milk, and a smile
\nthat is passed around the table like a medicine ball.<\/p>\n
Could I give you this?
\nAm I able to fill the voids you present
\nas the reason for your own solitude?
\nWere I an antique and handled like
\na Mongolian relic, I could be balanced
\nonto a shelf of your consciousness and
\nonly whisper to you wordlessly that
\nthe tears you may dust off of me are
\nfor you, in a language you could not
\ndecipher and become
\na treasure you are not too terrified to touch.<\/p>\n
But I am made of nothing but a tension
\nbetween my bones,
\nboth hollow and forever cloying,
\ncolorless, bright, and lost;
\ninflating the features
\nof my face that are repellant
\nto your solitude, to your idea of
\nhappiness;
\nI can reach with my fingers,
\nlisten to the gasp of my movement,
\ntry\u00a0to shape the words after they have
\ncreated castles, but I will not.
\nI am this tension and this tension shapes nothing.
\nI am left here contemplating,
\nbeginning to combust.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Were my chest made of oak, or the past centuries, the seams of a library’s great enlightenment, or the strange atmospheric feeling of love, could I be opened up easier? Could I splinter in our embrace and taste the moss … Continue reading