Staff Note: When poets write prose.
I know. I know it’s hard to catch up with the running world sometimes, with all these running people. You want to get away when all you feel is left out, knees on the ground and so far away from happiness, you’re not even sure if it exists anymore.
There are bombs falling on the broken country of your heart and I swear I have seen your skin erupting like shrapnel every time you want to build yourself out of angel ash. The trees look like just a blur of brown and green because you’ve forgotten what life looks like. You’ve forgotten what life looks like.
The room feels a little bit sadder with every blink of your eye and the morning breathes dullness into your arms every time you wake up in bed alone and I know, I know there is a serenity in sin which keeps calling you in but I swear—
I swear your smiles remind me of angry pigeons taking flight in the morning light and there has got to be some fucking hope in that.
The world is in a standstill, or maybe it’s just you, everything is static and sticky; death just doesn’t seem to give up.
You have been bleeding through other’s mistakes since the day you were born and it baffles me how no one finds that beautiful, you’re beautiful. I know you have angry knuckles waiting to collide with all the walls that you’ve built around yourself like unfinished sentences hauled at a scared child with minor OCD; it’s a lie when they trying is easy.
It’s also a lie when they say the hurt will disappear because it never feels like it’s going to disappear when it’s pouring and crashing so hard against your chest you feel the madness caving in and your pupils dilate in order for you to breathe fine; you’ve been trying not to breathe fire. It’s a lie when I say that everything’s gonna be okay, but don’t you see? I don’t want you to ever stop breathing and beating your heart for star clusters and life.
So when they say you’re gone without repair I will tell them that I have searched for sunflowers in your spine because you always make the sun trail behind you. I have screamed a million whispers to the welkin saying don’t make it rain today because I have seen clouds inside your eyes, felt the rush caught up in your hair, felt your hunger to fly; everyone knows the sky is a much better blue than the fault lines of the engulfing sea.