1// come to join the marching band

this is a series of poems.
they're formatted from letters to my sister - AQ.
they're all deeply personal - there will probably be around three of them, and they will all be sad and dragging and sometimes not exactly the most eloquent things, but they will be mine. they will be me trying to figure myself out and how to step on the marked tiles without falling.

see, this talks about how some days i'm nothing 
and the world is 
chipped nailpolish and dead houseplants and the song of cracked kitchen tiles, 
like a tsunami of all the things i can find that are as broken as i am

and i curl them in my arms  
ignoring when they're sharp enough that they dig into my skin,
because maybe if i find a way to create an apology 
directed at all the right people for once,
then i will stop blurring out like a water-discolored paper photograph 
that mottles inside a forgotten album 

because sometimes we pull out boxes upon cardboard boxes out of the attic 
sift through them with prejudiced, biased fingers 
run history over our palms like it's tap water, 
and once we're done with the world that came before us 
and the past of who our past selves and past lineage was, were, 

we fold them back into their containers 
and slide them back up to gather dust until someone else, someone new, 
comes to retrieve memories sunken and faded into 

shaking, 
shuttering, 
quaking,
fluttering pieces of papers in a drafty attic 

i'm working on it, AQ, i ami promise, 
i've been working on everything wrong with me for a while now 
and even though i feel like some kind of f*cked-up sisyphus, 
i'll sort it out because my dreams are less like dreams 
and more like being trapped and it doesn't stop when i wake up

i'm handling it, 
i will handle it, 
i'm working on it,
i'm fine. 

i'm sorry, i'm fine, 
everything's fine, i promise.

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed