I’m thinking about writing songs, I make up things that I just sing to myself, but I haven’t composed anything since high school (and those were really basic things).
The last time I saw you I kissed you on wax lips.
The last time I saw you, you put my hands on your hips.
The last time I saw you, we were ready to ditch
For each other.
The last time I saw you we went out dancing
Partners and partners, but our eyes kept catching,
The last time I saw you, you kept on telling
I should remember
The last time I saw you we made the big plan,
The last time I saw you we were ready to land
The last time I saw you I thought I’d see you again.
I thought I’d see you again
You are all spines
And I am all punctures
Waiting to happen.
I’m sorry I used you
As an instrument of my own destruction
By saying it was fine
That I was also all needles.
But once I saw where the wounds could be
It seemed fitting and right.
Because a weak spot
Broken and healed
Is no longer weak.
They turned you into another
Dead Man’s Voice
That washes over the living
Wears them down
Brings them near.
They turned you into another
Grey Stone Statue
Where children aren’t
Supposed to play
They do, still
You’d like that.
They made you a bill
An edict, a chapter,
A Memorial Highway
They shook hands over you
They washed their hands over you
But long ago,
When your chest still fell
And you broke Statues
Shouted over Dead Men’s Voices
Ignored the edicts and Memorials,
You told me something.
That I will never share.
I will not let those words
Change into a quote
I will not give them to mouths
That will let them die on their tongues.
I will keep them with me,
So as much as they try to make you
Just a cold statue
And a few faded words
There will still be a bit of your breath
Left in this world
You cut them open
Not knowing they were a tin can
Now you’ve sliced your hands all up
Runs like a rabbit from a shot that can’t catch her,
But the rope is still hers alone.
Always feels it in her,
Always feels it ready,
And she’s sinking like a stone.
And she can run,
And she can leap,
As far as any can go,
But at the end of the day,
It’s such a short way,
To the end of the rope.
– Continuation of one of the first poems I posted here, I finished it a while ago, but never actually wrote it down. Sometimes I sing this to myself while doing dishes.
I forgot that I’d come into the forest looking for a little red bird. A long time ago I had followed it in, tracked it by its song that seemed to promise that something would change if I kept going. The trees grew dense and I grew lost. Everything looked the same. Every sound was the wolf coming to eat me up. The wolves around every corner ate up the red bird, ate up the time before, ate up everything except the trees and the overgrowth and the snapping twigs.
I had stopped looking for a way out when I finally found it, emerging at the exact point I had first seen the red bird. All the colors were too bright, the green of the hills, the brown of the path, the red of all the birds singing in the sky. They brought with them all the memories the wolves had eaten up, and that these birds had been here all along, waiting for me to come back from the forest.
But in the forest the wolves were waiting too.