i’m watching the rain wash the streets
thinking, fuck! like a smith beating a hammer hot, i’ve been warring with myself for too long.
when i was sixteen, i thought i was meek
so i slid viciousness between my teeth
when i was nineteen, i thought i was cruel
so i choked on sugarcane, oblivious that
it is impossible to only sustain yourself on rock candy
when i was twenty-two, i thought i couldn’t trust myself with my heart, so i gifted it in a music box
in the hopes new hands would care better for it
i watch my thoughts drop like pearls on canvas and decide that
my gospel is the chambers in my chest
the chambers in my chest
the sweetness of the tears streaming down my cheeks under the neon lights on oxford road
the sweetness of the rage carving my fingertips in sand dunes
the sweetness of baring myself soft to a new pair of well-meaning hands despite fears of being young in all the wrong ways
i listen to the waves of being echoing in my navel and wonder
my path is one of softening instead of breaking
i can trust myself with my heart?
last night i felt alive under the lamp poles and monsoon sky, listening to lana singing about harry nilsson whispering in her ear, “come on, baby, you can drive” and i thought
come on, baby, i will drive.
“king’s cross hotel”, quick poem i wrote this morning watching the rain. early rough draft so bear with me.