I sailed on a small birch sailboat
away from the harbor to the horizon,
where the water falls off the side of the world,
and I fell into the abyss of the universe, smiling.
My tears fell
over the railing of a stairwell
while I clawed at the railing,
but could not quite hold on,
on my knees, praying nobody approached and
saw me pathetic and weak;
it’s long after that I can smile,
amazed now by knees so strong,
that could carry me miles
and then up that stairwell without a
sweat, and hands that no longer search for
the railing when I walk.
An actor performs for his friends,
dancing, jumping, a true clown,
everyone laughing but him,
who frowned but nobody saw,
too distracted by antics that he could
not control, losing control,
always—when did he lose control?
I know not, just that he’s taken the wheel once more,
and laughs with his friends.
I needed the high of love—
I love so many people and so many things and don’t say that enough—
and when I doubted, I screamed for it
in a car alone till my voice broke,
and screaming still, I reached for nothing and
hid in any corner I could find that was dark enough;
I wore the sunglasses indoors
to hide tears.
Tears fell also in the shower when I wanted to be someone,
anyone, but myself,
and it hurt and I wanted it to, but
desired hurt still hurts.
My dog ran to me when I got out,
panting, and licked my salty face,
and made me laugh when I wanted to suffer alone:
it’s impossible to suffer when you’re genuinely
laughing.
The belt around my neck is gone.
I lost it—I don’t know how you lose a belt,
but I have no use for it now (apart from holding my pants)—
and the other belt’s buckle broke.
It’s funny if you think about it.
I’ve peered into souls so hurt,
much worse than mine,
that live double lives and not pleasantly,
bearing scars from family, friends, and
themselves. And I fear for them and would do anything to mend
their scars and cuts and whatever harm approached them,
but since I cannot, I will at least love them.
And always will.
I remember when the three of us
talked by the river, convincing the others the world was
beauty when we all tried desperately to hate it,
and on that cold winter night,
we all stared at the river and were happy,
on a night that we should not have been;
we laughed by the river.
I suppose now, I understand and I see my life
not naively as I used to, and not as the
hellscape I saw after I bit the Apple,
but as truly beautiful, even when a storm rages on.
I’ve come to quite love the unconscious breath I draw,
or the bug bites and stubbed toes and scars I bear,
whether I’ve known them for minutes or a lifetime,
they are not the burden that used to slouch my shoulders,
but a testament to the worst
and a rising sun on the horizon.
Comments