My heart-tongued tongue seems to fiend a tongue-hearted pace,
lying on the bedroom floor,
unable to make for the door
or the stairs.
Yet magnetic attraction veers to
or reddish pink,
Desperate attempts for something you'd die for:
This notion for some reason baffles me.
All the more does the idea of self-sacrifice and things you think you hold
Till lust, and an unfaithful God betrays.
And these all resemble a crane
being stapled to the ground trying to fly
- or some other aerial-like creature, creation.
My eyes are shut,
surely I can open them but I’m sure there’s invisible stitches suturing the two
big fat wounds we’re given to realize harsh truths,
and beautiful lies.
I feel like my occipital lobe is being crushed:
or like my atlas has no axis,
or holding a globe with 1 or no hands…
However could anyone, even a Titan learn to balance the world with no hands
after having two to help throughout their whole banishment...
Would he learn like a child learning a bike?
Would the lesson glide like water on a duck’s back?
I feel my muscles against my bones tight, skin against everything alike...
I’m questioning everything alike:
Why does it feel like my teeth are grinding?
How do I relax my jaw?
Or refrain from clenching my teeth too hard when I think?
How do I stop thinking?
Is it too late to go for a late-night run?
Is the crack of morning too tranquil and blue to open a bottle of lightning?
It is times like these I look in the mirror,
And I see his drug-lulled eyes,
Recognize the similar/familiar numbs,
A dystopic-idea of what love is.
I can see my father staring back at me.
Aila D., 17