Il ne faut pas toucher aux idoles: la dorure en reste aux mains.
"Never touch your idols: the gilding will stick to your fingers."
- Gustave Flaubert, "Madame Bovary"
they're loose and fluid,
sketches done in gouache,
and i stare at them with distaste.
i'm just a little bit done,
with the way my feet cramp up at night,
how i can't get through the day with a hefty dose of caffeine,
a friend who yearns to touch death and craves suicide,
how nothing i say seems to be phrased right,
and the way i can't speak worth a damn
yet people are always asking.
there will always be more,
but i'm weighted down by thick blankets
and wondering if there will ever be a tomorrow
because we're all waiting for change.
the only problem is
that the last eighteen generations have been waiting for change
and i'm kind of sick of waiting
what's more, i'm afraid of how my self-descriptions
have come to discard gender entirely
and every time i call myself a king or an emperor jokingly,
i'm always waiting for someone to correct me.
(they always do.)
home will always be a subjective term,
and i'm tired of trying to make this wood welcome me,
my hands quaking and skin bleeding
i want to write stories, though,
and i'm trying.
desperately attempting to flesh out tales of people,
twisting their fates in my hands
as i roll dice and cast them into wastelands,
aircraft of a distant future,
a made-up city left in the dark.
but i can't,
and it's steadily scaring me more and more,
the idea that i can be a poet but not a story author,
but my ribs do not care for blind assurances,
and this thing is falling apart under my fingers,
as my tongue begs to slip into french,
connect me back to mamie and take me farther from mother
and yet i won't.
i will speak english and sit at tables
and set goddamn glasses of water out in front of people
and smile and look at the glint of a blade
and ask [edit: callname taken out] to please not kill herself
and i die a little inside each time i do.